


Episodes from Middle Earth

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Creepy, Dark, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Violence, and some humor?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 54
Words: 263,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of one-shots. Please look at the complete list in ch.1 for details. The most recent instalments: </p><p>43. Bilbo departs from Erebor, knowing only Thorin lives. Years later, Thorin comes for him.<br/>44. In the darkest hour, Bilbo plants the acorn in Dale.<br/>45. Mountain winters are not for hobbits.<br/>46. Bilbo is injured by the spiders.<br/>47. After learning of Thorin's upcoming political marriage and another piece of unfortunate news, Bilbo leaves Erebor.<br/>48. A mysterious gift turns Thorin and Bilbo into children.<br/>49. As Thorin sinks into goldsickness, Bilbo finds himself sick with something else.<br/>50. Five Times Thorin put his clothes (coat) on Bilbo, and one time Bilbo did that himself.<br/>51. The battle is won. But the prize, to Thorin, was too high.<br/>52. In another series of events, the conflict surrounding Erebor is resolved by games. And mushroom stew.<br/>53. Bilbo figures out how to use the Arkenstone during battle. But the price for using its power is high.<br/>54. Summer has come to the East: too hot for hobbits general and too sunny for certain parts of Thorin's skin not used to exposure.<br/>More to come?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. List of Installments

Since I ran out of space in the summary section, here is the extended list of all installments so far:

2\. Thorin hits Bilbo and regrets it.  
3\. Thranduil meets Kili when Kili is still a young child.  
4\. Thorin covers Bilbo in gems.  
5\. Thorin and Bilbo die together on the battlefield.  
6\. Kili wakes after BotFA and relives the adventure. Again and again.  
7\. The Adventure seen through Hamfast Gamgee's eyes (he does not like dwarves)  
8\. Bilbo gets injured during the barrel ride from Mirkwood.  
9\. 13 times the dwarves were protective of their burglar (+1).  
10\. Dwarves need less food than hobbits do. Nobody realizes until Bilbo faints.  
11\. 5 times somebody had to crossdress (Gandalf, Kili, Dwalin, Thranduil, Bilbo + Extra).  
12\. Bilbo dies in Gollum's cave, but is granted a chance to see the quest through.  
13\. Thorin and Bilbo enter a relationship, but then a darker side of Thorin shows itself.  
14\. Dollmaker Bofur makes Bilbo into the doll that is his masterpiece.  
15\. Half of the company dies in the Thunder Battle. The others die later.  
16\. Kili gets obsessed - with Bilbo.  
17\. Azog catches up and forces Thorin to choose between Bilbo and his nephews.  
18\. Smaug brings ruin to Middle Earth - not as a dragon, but as a revolutionary.  
19\. Fili and Kili don't mean to lose Bilbo in the woods - and there are wolves around.  
20\. Mysterious disappearances and deaths overshadow the first winter in Erebor. But all is not as it seems.  
21\. Blinded by the gold sickness, Thorin attacks Bilbo. It cures him, but the price is high.  
22\. Hobbits need sunlight to live - nobody knows about that before Bilbo spends the winter in Erebor.  
23\. All except Fili and Kili die. A scene from the aftermath.  
24\. Cast out as a traitor, Bilbo is lured by the ring to use its power and turn the tide of war.  
25\. Thorin drops Bilbo from the gate.  
26\. Dwalin and Bilbo grow closer in Mirkwood's dungeon.  
27\. Bilbo can "heal" by making another's injuries his own.  
28\. Kili and Fili treat Bilbo quite familiarly. But that is alright - or is it?  
29\. After the battle, the dwarves want Bilbo to stay -and make him.  
30\. Ori has always known the sound of drums. But only at Moria he understands.  
31\. The ring has no inclination to stay with Bilbo. So it tries to drive him mad.  
32\. Bilbo stays after the battle, but his healing progress and Thorin's temper do not mix well.  
33\. Rushing into the confrontation between Azog and Thorin, Bilbo, too, falls through the ice.  
34\. Thorin recalls an ancient dwarven magic - and finds the key to it in Bilbo's blood.  
35\. Bilbo is cursed to shrink by half every couple of days.  
36\. The dwarves believe Bilbo dead; Bilbo thinks them dead.  
37\. While on a diplomatic visit, 85year old Thorin is invited to dinner by 30year old Bilbo.  
38\. Thorin takes the ring. Decades later, Bilbo realizes what it is and comes up with a plan.  
39\. An accident threatens to claim Bilbo's life. Thorin tries to change fate.  
40\. Bilbo protects Thorin at the ultimate price. Their happy ending comes years later.  
41\. Blinded by madness, Thorin is about to kill Bilbo and Fili intervenes in the only way he can.  
42\. Bilbo has been losing hair. To dwarves losing hair is a sign of oncoming death.  
43\. Bilbo departs from Erebor, knowing only Thorin lives. Years later, Thorin comes for him.  
44\. In the darkest hour, Bilbo plants the acorn in Dale.  
45\. Mountain winters are not for hobbits.  
46\. Bilbo is injured by the spiders.  
47\. After learning of Thorin's upcoming political marriage and another piece of unfortunate news, Bilbo leaves Erebor.  
48\. A mysterious gift turns Thorin and Bilbo into children.  
49\. As Thorin sinks into goldsickness, Bilbo finds himself sick with something else.  
50\. Five Times Thorin put his clothes (coat) on Bilbo, and one time Bilbo did that himself.  
51\. The battle is won. But the prize, to Thorin, was too high.  
52\. In another series of events, the conflict surrounding Erebor is resolved by games. And Radagast's mushroom stew.  
53\. Bilbo figures out how to use the Arkenstone during battle. But the price for using its power is high.  
54\. Summer has come to the East: too hot for hobbits general and too sunny for certain parts of Thorin's skin not used to exposure.  


P.S: While I do get most prompts from the kinkmeme, and my muse is rather unreliable - if you have an idea, I wouldn't mind trying.


	2. List of Installments

It's perhaps the seventh time within an hour that Bilbo sighs and turns to Thorin.

"It'll be dark soon," the hobbit remarks, "Maybe we should head down to one of the settlements tonight."

There's a ball of rage rolling in Thorin's stomach – has been for a while, really. He'd barely slept the night before, having taken on double shift of keeping watch. Then they'd been set on by robbers in the morning, and while defeating them hadn't been difficult, their taunts had stung.

"Oh, look, a ragtag bunch of dwarves. Now where would they be going? Do they even possess anything of value?"

Needless to say, said man's head had been smoothly removed from his torso by Dwalin's axe. His bandit friends perished soon after, though one had gotten a blow at Thorin's shoulder, and while no blood was drawn, it ached.

Carrying heavy luggage had not helped.

Neither had the sun, bearing down on them mercilessly all through the day.

At lunch Bombur had complained about their small meals – there were settlements not too far, they could go there for at least one decent meal. Or a bed, as Bilbo had taken to suggesting not too long ago.

Then Gandalf had chimed in saying he knew Elves in the area who'd welcome them.

Behind Thorin many of the company kept groaning – about empty bellies, sore feet and heavy packs. His nerves were fraying: the company may be out of acute danger, but that was no excuse for dallying. They'd barely covered ground today, what with somebody demanding a rest here or a break there at every other moment.

So when Bilbo gets in his face and starts arguing about needing to stop and how taking a break won't hinder them, something in Thorin snaps.

He whirls, raises his hand – Bilbo's eyes widen in that split second – and then he brings down the blow with all the built-up fury rolling in his gut.

Thorin regrets his actions the moment his hand connects with the soft skin of Bilbo's cheek. The slap echoes through the clearing like an explosion, drawing gasps and a shocked exclamation, and the power of the hit is strong enough to throw Bilbo off his feet and to the ground.

Around them the company draws to an abrupt stop, but all Thorin knows is the hot rush of shame and fear as Bilbo fails to get back up – fails to move from where he has fallen, entirely. Gandalf brushes past Dori harshly, stalking over, but Thorin is closer and sinks to his knees at Bilbo's side first.

He almost hesitates to reach out – the last time he laid hands on Bilbo was in violence, and he isn't certain he has any right to reach out for the hobbit now – and somewhere among the members of the company Balin radiates disappointment. Bofur doesn't even attempt to hide his disapproval.

Gently Thorin reaches out to brush the hair out of Bilbo's face. The hobbit's eyes are closed, his expression is peaceful, and when touched his long lashes flutter. Bilbo comes to with a groan, and Thorin and Gandalf help him sit up as he gathers his wits.

There's a rapidly darkening bruise on the delicate skin of his left cheek with a small, sluggishly-bleeding cut at its center – caused by one of Thorin's rings. And there are no words to name what Thorin is feeling.

Behind him, the rest of the company watches in uneasy silence. Fili and Kili especially look pale and shocked – they know their uncles temper, but they have never seen him raise his hand against anybody.

Because he has not. In all of Thorin's memory he has never struck at anybody in anger, and he doesn't quite understand why he did it now – and at one who has already born so much of Thorin's displeasure without complaint and never deserved any of it. This new mistreatment constituted merely the last in a series of unjust sufferings.

"Gandalf? What…?" Bilbo blinks at the wizard who runs a hand through Bilbo's hair in a gentle, paternal caress. Thorin doesn't want to think what he'd be seeing instead of the relief now on the wizard's face had his blow had harsher consequences.

Still, even with this seemingly harmless outcome Thorin feels shame and guilt coil in his stomach, and clears his throat. Bilbo glances his way, and even though the hobbit must remember Thorin's actions he does not appear afraid.

"Master Baggins," Thorin says and straightens his spine. Even under Gandalf's angry glare and his companies wary eyes he will hold his head up – as a King, even an exiled one, an apology can never be a hushed over affair.

"My deepest apologies. My actions toward you have been inexcusable – both, as a man and as the leader of this company," he swallows and Bilbo's eyes widen.

It's a little reminiscent of that scene on the Carrock – which feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, though it can't have been more than a month. The memory serves to twist the knife in Thorin's gut even deeper, mocks him with his failure.

Hadn't he promised not to mistreat the hobbit any longer?

The bruise blossoming on Bilbo's cheek makes him burn with shame. "Consider myself deeply in your debt, Master Baggins. If, at any point of this journey, you desire any service of me, do but ask."

Bilbo blinks, flustered, and then laughs nervously. "Ah, no, well, that is…," he shrugs, "I was being a nuisance. Though, to be honest, I'd prefer if you'd just tell me the next time?"

There's some chuckling in response, and the tense atmosphere dissolves. The hobbit attempts a smile, but grimaces – the cheek must hurt.

"You're far too kind," mutters Gandalf. The comment is directed at Bilbo, but Thorin feels the wizard glare at him. And he has to completely agree with Gandalf's judgment. He shouldn't have hit him – how could he ever be a good King if he can't control his own actions?

So while for a part of the company the affair is done with at Bilbo's dismissal ("Shall we make camp here, then? There's a river nearby," suggests Dori), others remain thoughtful and disappointed. Without looking up Thorin knows Balin is among that number – he has tutored Thorin to be better than that, and while Dwalin may not say a word or move a muscle, Thorin knows that to Dwalin the utmost important skill for a warrior or ruler is to be in complete control.

With one last scolding glance cast at Thorin Gandalf gets to his feet and joins the rest of the company in their efforts to set up camp. Bilbo shudders slightly – perhaps due to the cooling air.

Thorin presses his lips together. "I'm truly sorry," he says. He means it, far more than he has ever meant any ill word he cast Bilbo's way – if only the hobbit could understand that.

"Don't worry," says Bilbo and smiles. Subconsciously he carefully touches his cheek, checking the painful bruise, and Thorin's heart clenches at the sight.

"Oin has some cooling salves," Thorin offers, "You should treat it."

"It's not that bad," Bilbo replied immediately. When Thorin's intensive gaze doesn't turn away he insists "Honestly."

But to Thorin, no matter what Bilbo says, this is beyond bad. It's luck that the injury turned out superficial (though it is not. Every bruise sustained by a member of his company rests on his conscience, and that applies tenfold to the bruises he has caused himself) – however beyond it lies another problem.

Is there a darkness encroaching his mind like it happened to his grandfather? So that, instead of obsessing over gold, Thorin has put the quest over his companions? A good ruler, that was what he had been taught first, back when Erebor was still a rich kingdom, puts his subjects first.

Hitting them in a fit of pique is beneath despicable, really.

"Perhaps we should head over," says Bilbo and draws Thorin from his thoughts. Twilight has fallen by now, and from the corner of his eye Thorin can see a fire has been set up.

He nods, stands, and notices Bilbo shiver again as the hobbit climbs to his feet. His clothes do offer little protection from the cold, so Thorin shrugs of his fur coat and in one smooth movement lays it over the hobbit's shoulders.

"But…" Bilbo makes to protest, though his fingers close appreciatively over the warm material.

"Keep it," says Thorin. It's a small token in compensation for the deed he committed, but at least the hobbit looks warm. Even if the coat is a little long and tails on the ground (and once more Thorin is reminded of how much more harm he could have inadvertently done. Bilbo is far smaller and less sturdy than a dwarf).

Yet, the hobbit follows him like all of this company do. Even if Thorin has to question how far the darkness that is obviously preying on his soul has already led them astray.

He can only hope he will not misstep again.

_fin_


	3. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is a pretty good father - the dwarves are impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in reply to this prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9352725#t9352725
> 
> Warnings for character death! And Angst!

 Thranduil did not like to travel. However, when Galadriel issued an invitation the King of the Greenwood had had little choice but to accept. The occasion itself had passed without incident, and now Thranduil and his escort were once more headed toward their home.

They traveled along the Misty Mountains, eschewing settlements as much as possible, though one afternoon, when riding through a wood, they heard voices shouting.

Children, Thranduil realized after a moment. It took another to understand that they were not playing, but obviously fighting.

“Weakling!” one called out, “Acting all high and mighty, but look at you – weaker than a girl.”

Following this came the thud of flesh hitting flesh, and another sound, closer to a sob. Thranduil did not hesitate, but directed his horse into the direction of the fight, while gesturing for the main host to continue on its path.

The children did not hear them approach. There were three, with a fourth one curled up on the ground, face hidden behind his arms. The other three were short, but burly, and their clothes identified them clearly as dwarves.

“You know, people say your father must have been one of those weed-eaters. I think they’re right,” said one of the three dwarf children.

Thranduil noticed one of his two guards stiffen at that – but he had heard the insult far too often to take offense; especially when children used it. The one on the ground lashed out “That’s not true!” and his voice squeaked.  A second child grabbed him by the hair for it, while the first drew his arm back for a punch.

One that never landed, because Thranduil gently but firmly took hold of his arm.

“And what do you think you are doing?” he inquired. The three offenders paled abruptly. One of them squeaked, the second turned on his heel and ran. The one Thranduil had a hold on pulled back abruptly – the gesture in itself actually an offense against the Elven King – before grabbing his last companion by the collar and following their fleeing friend.

Thranduil signaled his guards not to pursue them. The fright he had seen in those children’s eyes had been enough. They would think twice about attacking others in this wood again. Or offending elves.

A stifled sob drew his attention back to the remaining fourth dwarf child. The boy – indeed rather slight and with unusually delicate features for a dwarf – sat up, wiping at his eyes. There were bruises already beginning to form on the side of his face, but, Thranduil judged, that was the worst of his injuries.

“Are you alright?” he inquired softly.

Dark eyes blinked up at him in surprise. The child flinched. “You’re an elf!”

Thranduil silently cursed the old grudge – there was no need for children to be afraid of elves, be they dwarves, human or of any other race.  No elf would ever harm a child, though this one apparently did not know that.

“Indeed I am,” said Thranduil and softened his expression, “I am Thranduil of Mirkwood. What is your name?”

The child remained wary. “I’m Kili.”

“And where is your family, Kili?” Thranduil asked, making sure to let his expression remain gentle. Something about Kili’s face echoed with him, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Working,” answered Kili, “They’re working in the village near the mountain.”

Thranduil inspected the dwarf child carefully. His clothing was quality, but worn – perhaps a fabric that had been retailored to fit another wearer. He was rather thin, and if Thranduil recalled correctly the village nearby was primarily a human settlement. Dwarves were tolerated – growing up there could not have been a gentle fate.

“Did you come here to play?” he asked.

Kili shook his head. “I wanted to practice,” and when Kili nodded to his left Thranduil caught sight of the shattered remains of a wooden bow on the ground. An unusual weapon for a dwarf – a factor Kili obviously was aware of in spite of his young age, as his next words revealed.

“They always mock me when I practice in the village. So I usually come out here, but they must have followed me,” he shrugged.

“And they broke your bow?” inquired Thranduil. Suddenly he felt strangely angry at the other three dwarf children – perhaps he should have scared them a little more. Kili nodded, despondent.

“Hmm,” said Thranduil, “Are you good with a bow?”

He was glad to see suspicion and fear slowly fade from Kili’s eyes as the young dwarf nodded. “I can hit a target from the other side of the clearing.”

For a dwarf that was impressive. For one so young, his skills had to be extraordinary.

“Can you show that to me?” asked Thranduil. For once he was rather glad that his visit had entailed an extensive gift exchange. Among the gifts had been a miniature bow – while decorative in purpose, it was fully functional.

Retrieving the item took only moments, and the glow in Kili’s eyes when he beheld the bow made Thranduil feel rather warm on the inside. Though when he held it out, the young dwarf hesitated.

“Go ahead,” said Thranduil with a smile, and then crouched down. “Do you think you can hit the tree over there? The small one?”

Kili nodded, notched the arrow and concentrated. Subtly Thranduil observed his stance – which was surprisingly good. And wasn’t that an intriguing mystery in itself? How did a dwarf child that was obviously growing up under harsh circumstances come upon such fine archery skills? When archery itself was hardly practiced among dwarves after all.

The arrow flew, and hit its mark.

Thranduil nodded in approval – “Outstanding” he said, showing proper amazement, and Kili smiled – a wide, honest smile and Thranduil caught sight of a glimmer of silver in his hair. When the young dwarf ran off to retrieve the arrow, Thranduil realized it was a hair bead.

And it wasn’t made from silver.

But from mithril.

“Who taught you?” Thranduil asked, when Kili returned.

“My uncle, when he has time,” said the boy, “Though sometimes some of the men from the village show me some tricks, too. But my uncles does it best.”

“So your uncle is an archer, then?” Dwarven archers were not unheard of – Erebor, Thranduil recalled – had a host of archers. It hadn’t helped against the dragon.

Kili was shaking his head. “No, and he’s much better with a sword or an axe. But he says it’s important to be able to handle all kind of weapons, so he’s teaching me and my brother a bit of everything.”

Once again, that was a kind of education more suited to nobility. The cogs in Thranduil’s head started turning.

“Did he give you that bead, too?”

Kili confirmed it, but he seemed a little reluctant. Thranduil smiled in response. “I was thinking that it looks quite beautiful.”

It was definitely a family heirloom, Thranduil thought to himself, though it seemed a little odd if the boy’s uncle had given it to him, and not the father. Perhaps if he got a closer look he could decipher the engravings – as those often identified the family clan.

“Anyhow,” said Thrandui, deciding he wouldn’t ask Kili about his family any further, “I was thinking. It has been some time since I practiced my own archery skills – do you think we could practice together?”

* * *

 

At first Kili was a little skeptical and cautious. An elf practicing archery with a dwarf was unheard of – but Thranduil had to admit he enjoyed the company of one so young, and Kili had a laugh that reminded him of a time when his own children had been that age.

So eventually Kili came out from his shell, and turned out to be a skilled and attentive student – after the first hour had passed Thranduil found himself honestly impressed. All in all, it was a fine way to spend the afternoon. Thranduil barely noticed how time passed, until it was twilight and they heard voices calling for Kili.

The young dwarf let his bow sink. “Oh, that’s my brother,” he muttered, “I completely forgot …”

Two adult voices joined the call, and Kili paled a little.

Then another dwarf child burst through the bushes. “Kili!” a blond boy exclaimed, followed immediately by a woman – who gasped and drew to a sudden stop. Next to her one of the tallest dwarves Thranduil had ever seen emerged, an axe by his side.

“Fili, stop!” the woman screamed, and the blond boy stumbled. The tall dwarf raised his axe threateningly, and growled “Let him go, scum.”

Before Thranduil could say anything his guards had notched arrows, pointing steadily at the newcomers. And to make things even worse, Thranduil recognized both adult dwarves.

“King Thranduil,” Dis – exiled Princess or Erebor, said, her voice filled with disdain, “May I inquire as what you are doing with my son?”

The puzzle pieces fit. He’d suspected it, but never actually made the connection. Exiled royalty struggling to survive – Thranduil had even heard, through the grapevine, that Dis had had two sons. He just hadn’t expected to happen upon them.

With the raise of a hand he signaled his guards to lower their bows. “Nothing untoward, my lady,” he replied, when Kili abruptly straightened up. “We were practicing archery!”

Both Dis’ and Dwalin’s eyes widened slightly.

“As the prince says,” agreed Thranduil with a smile.

Dis sighed, looking a little put-upon. Dwalin hesitated, but eventually lowered his axe as well, accepting that there was no threat present. “Very well,” Dis said, “But we must leave now. Kili.”

“Yes,” said Kili and turned to Thranduil. He held out the bow, and underneath the properly chastised expression lurked the shadow of a smile. Thranduil felt his heart ache – it couldn’t be easy, growing up, a dwarven prince in exile with a particular skill as an archer. The other boys’ reaction earlier had proven as much.

And for some reason Thranduil found himself wishing a better fate for this child.

But he couldn’t change fate. Instead he crouched down and rested a hand on Kili’s shoulder, ignoring the scandalized looks on the family’s faces.

“Keep it,” he told Kili, “You’re already a very skilled archer. If you practice, one day you’ll probably be the best.”

Among dwarves, Thranduil allowed to himself, but that was irrelevant in light of the smile that blossomed on Kili’s face. “Really?”

Thranduil nodded. “Yes, really,” he said with a clap, “Now go, your family is waiting.”

When he stood up again and watched Kili run to his brother – both immersing themselves immediately in a high-spirited conversation – he chanced to look at Dis. Her eyes were guarded, watching Thranduil in return.

And maybe there was a glint of acknowledgment. Not from a dwarf to an elf, because that could not be. Not between them, not with their history.

But from a mother to a father.

* * *

 

Years later Thranduil stands, once more, in Erebor.

The dragon has been slain, the kingdom reclaimed and one of Durin’s line sits on the throne. For now, however Thranduil looks upon the faces of the dead – he may never have liked Thorin, but this is a bitter end indeed.

Even worse however is the hand fate has dealt to the two princes laid out at his side. Barely of age, yet already dead in battle. For a home they never knew – for a dream that may have not been their own.

The dreadful thought that one day his own children may suffer a similar fate creeps upon him, and it twists something deep in his soul. His eyes seek out Dis – who holds her head high and meets Thranduil’s gaze. She has lost everything, but there is no hatred in her eyes, and suddenly Thranduil feels small.

He looks at Kili and remembers the young dwarf child he had gifted a bow. The wide smile, a sparkle in those eyes – and he wonders if he could have done anything.

  _fin_  



	4. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin/Bilbo: draped in gems. 
> 
> Not mine. Once again, angst. And this time things get fairly creepy, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5346.html?thread=12232162#t12232162

It is supposed to counteract the gold sickness.

Bilbo isn't certain if it does. But he sits still when Thorin makes him sit down in Erebor's treasure hall. Around them the immeasurable riches glitter under the light of a thousand torches – and the silence is suffocating.

Thorin seems unbothered, instead he rummages around in the piles of gold and diamonds, picking up something here, another thing there and humming under his breath. The pockets of his coats are laden, when he returns to Bilbo.

Without a word he reaches out and takes hold of Bilbo's left hand - small and soft, once again due to Oin's salves. Pale, too, for the lack of sunlight.

Already there rings on four out of five fingers. On his thumb rests a broad golden band, a smaller one decorated by a single ruby on his second finger. A heavy ring topped with a large sapphire on his middle finger, and two rings on his ring finger – one made from mithril, the other from silver and inlaid with small sparkling gemstones.

Thorin reverently slips a sixth ring on Bilbo's pinky. This one is golden with emeralds. To his surprise, Thorin retrieves another object from his pocket – something golden, that looks like a mix of a claw and a nail – and places it on Bilbo's fingertip.

It feels weird, though it does not slip off. Thought Bilbo notices, the moment Thorin lets go of his hand, that it makes him spread his fingers awkwardly.

Part of him hopes Thorin doesn't have a similar device for his other hand, too.

* * *

"Stay please," Fili had told him.

Later, when Bilbo had been mulling over his options, Balin had joined him. "Thorin has the makings of a great king."

"Of course he does," Bilbo had replied.

"Though he, too, is haunted by the same sickness that once drove his grandfather near madness," said Balin.

Bilbo fell silent. He remembered all too well the hard glint in Thorin's eyes, and the less than sane expression when the King had dangled him over the wall.

"Your presence might serve as a reminder," Balin stated.

They never spoke of this afterwards, and Bilbo did not look at Balin when he announced his decision to stay a bit longer. Instead, he watched a slight smile spread over Thorin's face, and felt he had done the right thing.

* * *

Only one bracelet joins the collection clinking around his left arm today. It's not even particularly heavy, though Bilbo always feels off balance when Thorin adjusts the bracelets clinking around his wrists.

Sometimes they remind him a little too much of shackles.

* * *

One evening Thorin visited his chambers.

"As you are staying, I took the liberty of commissioning a new wardrobe for you," the King said. Bilbo was about to proclaim this as unnecessary, but Thorin added, "You're a hero and my friend. You can't keep wearing cast-offs and children's clothes."

Bilbo did not argue.

The trousers were cut in the style Bilbo had preferred back in the Shire. The fabric, however, was exquisite and the hems inlaid with golden thread. Thorin produced a gem-stone studded belt in addition – admitting that the rags from their adventure had been used for measurement, even though Bilbo had lost some weight since.

His white shirt had been replaced by one made of a more silken material, and the golden stitching on the collar mirrored the patterns on the hems of his trousers. As well as the patterns he had seen on Thorin's coat. Bilbo refrained from commenting.

The waistcoat, however, was an exercise in decadence. And it was one of many – in colors ranging from shades of gold and yellow, over emerald green and blood red to outrageous combinations. Thorin picked a green one for Bilbo. The pattern on the brocade imitated the decorative carvings Bilbo had seen on the walls of Erebor's finest halls. Instead of brass buttons, this one's buttons are made from pure gold, and further inlaid with small emeralds.

It rested heavily on Bilbo's shoulders.

He did flinch when Thorin stepped behind his back, pulled on something and suddenly the fabric grew tight. Bilbo floundered and Thorin released the clasp with a chuckle. "This fabric won't rip," he said.

"Great," Bilbo replied, still catching his breath. He did in fact appreciate sturdy fabric; though he wasn't certain how he felt about decorative buckles on the back of his clothes becoming potentially dangerous.

The overcoat was even more extravagant. And instead of being the dark red Bilbo had preferred, it was held in the dark blue Thorin usually wore.

"It will tell people you belong with me," Thorin said.

Bilbo shivered. And wondered whether that made him part of Thorin's family or one of his possessions.

* * *

To his surprise, Thorin works the coat off his shoulders. When Bilbo attempts to slip out of it, Thorin stays his hand. Bilbo then remains seated, the coat at his elbows, and his movement restricted.

The pounding of his heart is loud in the silence of the treasure hall.

Thorin fastens a gold bracelet around his upper arm.

It's tight.

* * *

At one point Bilbo had wondered what to do with his time.

He had intended to help Ori out in the library or join Bombur in the kitchen – those were the things he could do and was familiar with. Fili, however, urged him onto a stone seat next to Thorin in Erebor's grand hall, announcing he would be serving as an advisor to the King.

Thorin had smiled fondly and given Bilbo a heavy golden chain that announced his new position.

* * *

Thorin pulls up the coat again, and caresses the necklaces – six, unless Bilbo has lost count – hung around the hobbit's neck. The weight is bothersome on any day, though Bilbo is beginning to feel that the shortest necklace is the most uncomfortable. Its pendant rests calmly in the hollow of his throat – the cool touch of metal welcome at times, choking at others.

Bilbo has seen collars made from gold, and the idea of wearing such a stiff, suffocating construction terrifies him. Today, however, that danger passes, as Thorin's hands slip up, past the heavy ear hangings and into his hair.

* * *

After being initially insecure, Bilbo found himself growing into the role of an advisor. At times he only needed to look at Thorin to make the King reconsider a decision – and to remind him that there was so much yet undiscovered wealth in Erebor that they could buy grain at slightly above-market prices, seeing as the farmers were struggling with unexpected floods.

Erebor has gold enough, but gold does not feed its inhabitants.

And Bilbo did constantly remind Thorin that his real treasure were his people.

* * *

There are already all sorts of gemstones and beads worked into Bilbo's hair. So this time Thorin connects them with delicate chains made of gold and metal, yet looking deceptively soft – like real thread.

When the King is finished, Bilbo's head is three times as heavy as before, and in the corner of his eye he sees a constant glitter. Thorin steps back and watches him with a satisfied hum.

His eyes are glazed.

"Beautiful," Thorin whispers.

He probably hasn't meant to say it out loud, so Bilbo doesn't comment. He does however wonder if Thorin was referring to him or the stones.

* * *

Nobody ever said it out loud, but Bilbo's role extended far beyond advisor. It's not merely his words that have steered Thorin clear of political disaster – Balin might have taken those duties to similar successes.

Bilbo presences in itself served as a reminder to Thorin. A reminder of the sickness preying on him – the one he had once already succumbed to.

However, with Thorin's eyes fixed on Bilbo covered in jewels and treasure, the hobbit wondered if he wasn't just a replacement for the treasure. Instead of obsessing over the Arkenstone, Thorin now looked at him with the same gleam in his eyes.

* * *

A fixation, a dress-up doll that is what he is, Bilbo admits to himself, when Thorin attaches another silver bracelet to his right arm. He has become another obsession for the King, and at times he has to wonder whether this isn't another form of madness.

Or if Thorin covering him in jewels isn't an attempt of turning him into a treasure.

However, according to Balin, this is not the dragon sickness. Thorin's obsession may not be healthy, but it doesn't distract him from ruling. And unlike the Arkenstone, Bilbo has an opinion – one that holds much sway over the King.

So when Fili gives Bilbo a pitying look and tells him he needn't put up with Thorin's whims, the hobbit tells him that he doesn't mind. As long as it helps to keep Thorin's mind grounded. As long as it makes him a good ruler.

As long as it protects all those people Bilbo has come to care about.

For that sake he doesn't mind being a possession.

_fin_

* * *


	5. Together in Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (abridged): Bilbo and Thorin die in each others' arms.   
> Link: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12846781#t12846781
> 
> Warnings: Blood, violence, character death.   
> Enjoy? ;)

The gash on Thorin’s back is a dull burn when he dispatches the orc that snuck up behind him. He whirls, ducks a goblin blade, and buries Orcrist in the creature’s stomach. Blood splatter, but Thorin pays it no heed.

Around him the battle rages – orcs, goblins, men, elves and dwarfs – the ground is stained red, and only a few steps from Thorin lies the mutilated corpse or a dwarven warrior. Just on the other side, a men’s head is smashed in by an orc’s war hammer, and Thorin has to step aside to dodge a spear. The orc’s clumsy, its face already stained black from blood, and killing it is hardly an effort.

Thorin is out of breath, but he can’t feel it. His blood is singing in his ears – battle rush – he knows, but for now that doesn’t matter. Not when he lifts his head and looks for Azog – he saw that hideous creature earlier, but Erebor’s slopes have become a raging see of blood and steel.

An orc horn echoes somewhere far too his left, but its sound is cut off abruptly. Perhaps an arrow; and just then an elven horn sounds, and Thorin hears the whosh of flying arrows. Not too close, but still close enough to be audible. As are the screams of the dying, the garbling of a watery last breath and the howling of the wargs.

His body is a mass of aches, some more serious than others, but his hands are steady. He hasn’t seen a member of his company in forever, and all the other dwarves he saw were dead, so perhaps that is a good thing. But feelings have lost their impact – all Thorin knows is that he wants Azog’s head.

So he pushes off into a direction that seems like a good idea at that time. Orcrist’s blade glints in the night, and no orc blood will mar it, regardless of how many bodies it slices through.

Then suddenly, there’s a commotion behind him.

Thorin whirls, only to find an orc with a blade protruding from its chest. The blue glow is familiar, even underneath the black blood, and Thorin’s heart stutters to a sudden stop.

A gurgle, and the orcs falls to the ground, slipping from the blade, and Thorin finds himself staring down at Bilbo, and his chest is torn. The rage that filled his veins is a distant memory, the Arkenstone of no consequence in battle.

There’s a thousand things Thorin suddenly wants to say. Bilbo stares at him, wide-eyed, and a trickled of blood runs down the side of his face. Insecurity and fear, and Thorin wants to banish them from Bilbo’s eyes, because in all the hobbit has done, he’s never been anything less than brave and true. Because even after Thorin cast him out, he is still here, protecting the person that threatened to throw him from Erebor’s wall.

But this is a battle, and before Thorin can speak, he hears another orc sneak up behind him, has to turn and dodge and weave, and Orcrist bites into orc flesh without mercy. One orc turns four, then six, but they all fall, and Thorin does not feel the sting when a blade catches his arm and another nicks his leg.

Then one slices across his chest. The burn is dull, his chest warm, and Thorin knows this is serious, this injury will need seeing to, but his legs remain strong and he drives Orcrist through the orc’s chest.

His heart is pounding, and there’s a mount of bodies before him, their black blood staining the soles of his boots. Something clatters behind him, there’s a gasp – Bilbo! – Thorin whirls around.

And there he is.

Azog, astride on his white warg, looms over Bilbo, only a small distance away. To Thorin’s it seems to be the other end of the world, and Bilbo’s on his back, his sword is on the ground, out of reach, and neither Azog nor Bilbo pay any mind to Thorin.

A sharp grin crosses Azog’s face.

“I remember you,” he announces and slides from his warg, “You already got in my way once.”

Bilbo tries to scramble away, but Azog brings a heavy foot down on Bilbo’s ankle. Even Thorin hears the crack, and a stifled sob escapes Bilbo.

“You won’t get away again,” Azog promises.

Only then Thorin sees the spear in his hand, raised. He isn’t certain, but he thinks it’s his voice that screams a reverberating “No!”, echoing even over the din of battle. Thorin stumbles forward, not feeling the ache of his chest any longer, or the warmth of his own blood.

He is not in time.

Azog brings down the spear, and it cuts easily through the hobbit’s clothes and soft skin. Silk and brocade are no armor, and the head of spear vanishes deep into Bilbo’s ribcage.

Then the orc behind Azog gets his head cut off. Thorin spies the glint of an elven blade, but his eyes won’t stray from Bilbo. Who’s struggling to breathe, but doesn’t make a sound, but small, pained gasps.

Azog growls, and jerks the spear from Bilbo’s chest, splattering the ground with ruby-bright red. The orc turns – those elvish blades probably too close, but Thorin doesn’t care.

Shaky footsteps carry him to Bilbo’s side. He drops to the ground, hesitating to reach out. Bilbo’s struggling to breathe, his lips as red as his formerly white shirt. Blood is leaking out of the wound, and ice grips Thorin’s heart.

This is fatal.

And then fate bestows a strange favor onto him. Even though Bilbo’s eyelashes are fluttering, the hobbit’s eyes find Thorin, and brighten with recognition. A small, pale hand reaches for him, and Thorin catches it, before it can drop to the ground.

He feels the pulse racing under his fingers, the hand already clammy and cooling. Bilbo’s eyes remain on Thorin, and there are too many emotions in his chest.

But Bilbo’s dying, and those wide, innocent eyes are haunted by fear. Thorin wishes nothing than to see them crinkled in a smile again (he won’t, nevermore, and it’s his own fault) – at least, to see Bilbo at peace.

“Mas…” Thorin starts, and then his heart clenches, and he abruptly draws Bilbo tightly against his chest. The hobbit makes a pained noise – Thorin knows his grip must be hurting, though he at least wants the hobbit to understand his emotions. He wants Bilbo to feel appreciated, wants to undo his cruel words.

Wants to show him he is cherished and loved.

“Bilbo,” Thorin mutters against the blond curls. The hobbit’s body is warm – probably from the blood – and underneath the stench of battle, there’s a hint of wood and honey and all those simple, precious things that Thorin had never known how to appreciate.

Reluctantly, he leans back – just far enough to see Bilbo’s face, though he keeps him in his embrace. One hand carefully comes up to wipe away the blood staining Bilbo’s lips.

“There are no words to excuse what I’ve said and done to you,” Thorin mutters, “And I will ever carry them on my conscience.”

There’s a minuscule pressure on his thigh. Perhaps Bilbo’s attempt at a squeeze. It scares Thorin, because now he can feel Bilbo’s heartbeat slowing down.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo, I’m sorry,” Thorin mutters. His voice his choked, but he ignores it. “I’m sorry for every unkind word I ever said to you. Know that I regret them. You are the bravest, loveliest person I have ever known.”

And then Bilbo’s face brightens with a soft smile, that soothes Thorin’s heart . When Bilbo’s eyes close, his expression is peaceful.

A heartbeat later, Thorin realizes the hobbit has stopped breathing. The body in his arms his limp, and with trembling hands Thorin carefully lies him down.

He wants to carry Bilbo’s body to Erebor. Lay him out in state, make certain the world knows this hobbit’s worth. Wants to do something more reverent than gentle resting Bilbo onto the dirty ground of the battlefield.

But around him, the battle rages on.

Thorin spies Azog engaged in fight with a man, and his blood boils. If he ever sustained any injuries this night, he does not feel them any longer. Instead his fingers closer around Orcrist’s hilt once more, he stands and walks.

At his side, orcs collapse with their throats cut, their limbs hacked off. Thorin does not even look at them – his sight is set on Azog, and his mind cries for the orc’s blood. For revenge, revenge, revenge.

Azog sees him coming, smirks – though there must have been something foreboding in Thorin’s expression, because Azog’s smirk seems paltry, unsure. The orc barely brings up his own blade to block Thorin’s first strike in time.

The dwarf King speaks no words. There is no name for the atrocity Azog committed, no words deep enough to express what Thorin wishes – but Orcrist translates these in sharp, blood-thirsty swings. Azog is stumbling back, retreating, the confidence vanishing from his actions.

He’s on the defensive, but Thorin does not stop. Does not care for any cuts Azog deals him, or any mocking words Azog tries to say. His mind is numb, his ears deaf.

Only when his blade pierces Azog’s stomach, Thorin feels again.

And it’s the strike of Azog’s blade, catching his upper leg. The blow’s off course, thrown haphazardly, but is goes under Thorin’s armor, and through the flesh. It’s deep, and blood gushes from the wound immediately.

Thorin jerks his blade up, and Orcrist slices through Azog’s intestines like water. There’s a gurgle, and Azog falls to his knees.

This time, Thorin thinks with a dark satisfaction, the orc won’t recover. This time, death will be final.

(But not only for Azog).

Thorin’s knees give out the moment satisfaction blossoms in his heart as Azog lies on the ground, face-down and unmoving, a puddle of black blood spreading around him. Confusion fills Thorin as he finds himself kneeling – and somehow the world feels detached again, or he feels lighter?

He recognizes the dizziness to be induced by blood loss And he does not need to look at his leg to understand. There’s an odd heat radiating from there, one that can only stem from his own blood. His heart is racing, but he feels calm.

Thorin blinks, to steady the swirling world.

Somehow, the battle seems to have moved on. He is surrounded by dead bodies – some groaning, moaning and flinching, but all as good as dead. Azog is among them, and that lets Thorin’s heart clench with satisfaction.

He doesn’t much care that he will lie among them as well, soon. A warrior’s death is welcome, and now that Azog is slain he feels he has fulfilled his duty. The only wish he has left is for Erebor to regain its former glory. For Fili and Kili to survive, because he knows his nephews will make good rulers.

Rulers who will never succumb to the dragon sickness.

His eyes find Bilbo. The hobbit’s body lies not far away, looking even smaller in death among the corpses of orcs and men. And not only his small size makes Bilbo seem so out of place, there’s no armor covering him either.

It’s a cruel fate for Bilbo to have died here, like this, and no matter how much Thorin may have disclaimed any responsibility an age ago, back in the comfortable home under the soft green hills of the Shire, it is his fault. His actions exposed Bilbo to the cruelties of war – and even if he did not throw him from the wall, he still as good as killed him.

Thorin’s body protests when he crawls over. His leg is numb, refusing to move, and his arms tremble. Thorin does not look up – any approaching orc could easily slice off his head, now, but somehow he makes it to Bilbo’s side.

There’s nothing to be done. Bilbo looks peaceful, in death, his face still as soft as it was the first time they met, only a little thinner.

With his last remaining strength Thorin gathers the hobbit against his chest. Whatever happens, he hopes that at least the hobbit’s body won’t be desecrated.

And as he closes his own eyes, the weight against his chest is a comfort.

***

It is Nori who discovers the bodies.

The morning after the battle is grey and heavy; the survivors tired, though victorious. It is not a time to celebrate, not when so many lie dead on Erebor’s slopes.

Nori stares on the bodies in front of him, speechless for a moment. Fili will be King, he thinks, Fili who is barely even an adult and who’s already lost one father when he was too young. To lose Thorin now will be a cruel blow to the princes, on top of their own injuries.

(At least Nori knows that both of them are resting in a tent, their injuries severe but not fatal).

And poor Bilbo will never see his home again. He looks like a fragile china doll, clutched against Thorin’s chest. It was madness for him to join the battle, but then the battle itself had been madness.

And so Nori sighs deeply and calls to the others.

***

The bodies are carried to Erebor with all honor owed to them.

Gandalf has openly shown regret and guilt and horror once he saw Bilbo, pale and dead. He had never meant for the hobbit to die – never intended for this quest to end so grievously for the hobbit as it did.

Fili stands up straight, but it’s a tragic sight. Still, he performs his duties admirably, and nobody doubts his capacity as a ruler. Dain provides more-than-welcome support and advice, and Kili helps, and even if his public displays of grief may irritate some of the more old-fashioned dwarves, no one begrudges him for it.

Instead, it does win them sympathies from the men, and also Thranduil appears shaken when he looks upon the bodies laid out for the funeral in Erebor’s royal tombs.

Nobody protested Fili’s decision to have Bilbo buried at Thorin’s side. Their company is more than aware of how far this is from the gentle hills of Bilbo’s home, but their hobbit has deserved this last honor. Because maybe, had he lived, Erebor may have become a home for him, too.

  _Fin_  



	6. Groundhog Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Groundhog Day. Kili dies in BotFA and wakes up in Bag End. And ends up waking there several times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One not written for the kink meme. Though I think there was a similar prompt out there, but I can't find it anymore. 
> 
> Multiple character death, violence and bloodshed ahead. It does have a happy ending, though.

There’s a sword buried in his chest. The pain doesn’t even register – he can only stare in disbelief. Somebody screams his name – it might be Fili, but really, he doesn’t even feel anything – and then the world goes dark.

***

When he comes to, he is asleep on an armchair in Bilbo Baggins’ living room. The entire scene is terribly familiar, and Kili feels frozen, out of touch for the reminder of the day. Around him life continues along a terribly familiar pattern.

They leave; Bilbo follows. There’s the incident with the handkerchief and they stop in the middle of a forest to spend the night. Kili doesn’t understand what is happening – did he dream the battle and everything else, is this a dream or what is it?

Nobody else notices.

Only Fili asks him if he’s alright, since he was acting out of it. Kili claims a bad dream the night before, and Fili tells him it’s his own fault for eating too much the night before. Lacking an idea of what to do, Kili plays along, but it sometimes feels as if he isn’t remembering the script.

And then things begin to change.

It is subtle at first. When Bofur says something unexpected, or Balin’s tales change. Bombur cooks something different, yet time flies by. Kili isn’t certain what to do – by now he thinks that this probably is no dream, and if the other events – including his own death – were merely a product of his mind, it was a terribly lucid one.

He does not dare to think of it as a vision.

And then they encounter the trolls. But instead of having a hale hobbit tossed at him, this one was injured. Kili knows it the moment he catches Bilbo’s weight and the hobbit makes a very odd sound. And then stays down instead of getting up.

Only after the battle is concluded – this time they manage to incapacitate the trolls long enough to escape – they have time to have closer look at their burglar. There’s blood on his lips now, and every breath rattles his chest.

Broken ribs, Oin diagnoses.

Later, when Bilbo has dosed off, he adds “and possibly internal injuries, too.”

The next day Bilbo is in no condition to walk, can barely speak and keeps coughing up blood. Kili feels terrible – how could this have happened? Couldn’t he, recognizing the situation, have done anything?

They march on, and in the afternoon Bilbo develops a fever. Gandalf urges them to head to Rivendell, and with Bilbo’s condition worsening fast, Thorin has no choice but to agree.

At least they are not being followed by orcs this time, Kili thinks.

And yet, when Rivendell is still half a day away, Bilbo dies quietly. It’s Dori who calls them to a stop, and once they all have turned he looks at the silent bundle in his arms. “He’s gone,” he announces.

Gandalf hurries over to confirm, but Kili has no reason to doubt Dori’s judgment. He also feels terrible. And responsible.

Thorin now sees no need to continue on to Rivendell. Gandalf furiously responds that he will take the hobbit there on his own – the least he deserves is a decent funeral, and from the shifting feet Kili knows many of the company agree with the wizard.

They split paths.

By nightfall, the orcs catch up with the dwarves.

This time Kili fails to block an arrow that tears right through his throat.

***

His first thought upon waking is that this was a horrible way to die, and he’ll make certain to avoid it from now on. The painful burn of blood in his lungs, tightness of his chest and taste of copper in his mouth. He shudders, and also thinks of Bilbo’s face, white and still in death.

Not again, he promises himself.

This time he takes extra care to be cheerful. And when they run into the trolls, he makes certain they inform Thorin first – even before the trolls can steal the ponies.

Nobody dies in this battle, but Fili receives a nasty cut on his arm. It bleeds heavily, but after changing the dressing three times during the night, it ultimately stops. After that the injury is hidden under long sleeves, and the flush Fili develops in Rivendell can be easily explained by the unfamiliar fare and the rich wine.

They’re half-way up the first mountain pass when Fili collapses with a fever. He’s sweating and delirious, and while the old injury may be healing, Oin eventually concludes that the blade must have been poisoned.

Kili is completely besides himself – how could he have missed his brother’s worsening condition? Has he allowed himself to grow so distracted that now his brother has to pay the price?

“Everything but this,” Kili mutters in a silent prayer to whatever deity is willing to listen. But none does, and Fili dies in the night, with Thorin openly crying over the cooling body.

Kili walks away from the group, glances across the silent landscape under the unclouded night sky. Middle Earth seems tranquil, beautiful, and he can’t even cry – his heart is unwilling to believe this happened, unwilling to accept he missed this.

He doesn’t allow himself to think further. He knows he can’t continue like this.

So he intentionally steps too far and lets himself fall off the mountain side.

***

Falling is not a bad way to die, Kili realizes the next time around. Sitting and watching others die is worse – even now when he looks at Fili he can see his face pale in death. This time around he tries to the best of his abilities not to let anything happen differently.

It is unexpectedly difficult, because he is not reliving these moments for the first time, and the memories begin to overlap each other. Still, they make it past the trolls, escape the orc pack and get to Rivendell without any obvious alterations.

Kili can’t help the tension he feels – he knows Fili worries, but he doesn’t know how to share his secret.

And then, when they’re escaping from the goblin tunnels, Dwalin takes a blow meant for Kili and the young dwarf can only watch in frozen horror as Dwalin and the goblin fall from the bridge and disappear in the darkness.

Fili grabs his sleeve and drags him away before Kili can bring himself to follow Dwalin. He barely registers what is happening around him.

Everything went so well – and then…

He must have missed it because he was so nervous, Kili thinks while his feet go through the motions. They’re falling and running, and fighting, and nobody seems to notice that Kili isn’t all there.

And somehow, the dynamics completely shift.

The orc pack is upon them much earlier, and the eagles arrive too late. Dori and Ori fall to their death, only Nori’s echoing shout their companion. Bilbo jumps into the fray to save Thorin, but no dwarf arrives in time to save him – the Pale Orc smashes his weapon against the hobbit’s head, and the small thing stays down, the ground underneath slowly turning red.

Ten dwarves and one wizard are saved by the eagles. And even if Thorin lives, no joy is to be found. Balin waves away any comforting overtures made in his direction and proceeds to sit away from the group; Nori is furious and can’t help that his anger brings forward tears.

Kili stays silent, his heart still icy cold with terror.

They continue, though Kili doesn’t know why or how. Fili tries to encourage him, but even he looks pale, and with true fear Kili wonders if he has to watch his brother die again. They do not visit Beorn, but head directly into Mirkwood.

And to the spiders.

Kili fights as long as he can, but then there’s a sting in his thigh, and the world goes dark.

***

He wakes, once again, on the armchair in Bag End.

The spiders must have eaten them, Kili thinks, and shudders. It’s luck he never woke up, but the image leaves him disturbed.

It’s early, too – none of the other dwarves are awake yet, and the sun is only beginning to rise. Kili pushes himself up, stretching his arms and wondering just how he is supposed to get out of this nightmarish cycle.

This time he resolves to be proactive.

Prior to setting up camp, Kili points out the clues the trolls have left. The company successfully overwhelms them, and helps themselves to the weapons and gold. They don’t encounter Radagast, but make it to Rivendell. The stone giants and goblins can be avoided by leaving Rivendell a day earlier, and the fateful encounter with the Pale Orc does not occur, either.

Kili’s mood brightens then. They have suffered no injuries, are making good time and the mood is pleasant. The spiders do not trouble them either.

And then, in a vicious turn-about, their good health becomes their downfall. One moment they are wandering through Mirkwood, rations low but not depleted, and Kili knows the exit is not far any more.

They happen onto an elf patrol.

The ensuing fight is vicious.

Kili doesn’t quite remember who first drew their weapons, but he recalls the elves accusing them of trespassing their territory, and weapons being drawn. Bilbo throws himself forward, shouting for everybody to calm down.

And by accident of intention, receives a knife in his back for the effort. Blood tints the ground red. The dwarves have the greater numbers, but the elves know the territory and have not had to ration their food. Neither are they exhausted.

And when an elvish blade slices through Oin’s neck like paper, Kili’s stomach twists. He blocks a strike aimed at his own head, and ducks away, but his heart is pounding and his mind spins.

A gurgle to his left and he sees an arrow piercing Bofur’s chest. There’s blood dripping from the dwarf’s lips as he tries to say something before he collapses. Kili watches in frozen desperation. Several steps ahead, Bifur flies into a rage, and takes four elves down before one blade cuts his throat.

“Thorin!” Balin yells and Kili turns to see his uncle on his knees.

For a moment he wonders what is wrong with that picture. Then Thorin pitches forward and Kili sees at least three arrows buried in his back.

Dread settles in his stomach.

This is lost, he realizes, this is all lost.

Swallowing against his tightening throat, he turns the blade against himself. He hasn’t yet dared to end it quite like this. Not yet – but he won’t let himself be cut down by the elves either. His hands are trembling, yet he forces himself to breathe deeply.

And then pushes the sword through his stomach.

It burns viciously, and makes his vision darken. When it clears again, he’s on the ground and Fili hovering over him.

If there is one thing he knows, he never wants to see this particular expression on Fili’s face again.

***

The next attempt ends prematurely at the hands of the trolls. Kili deviates from the pattern, attempting to change things for the better. It ends with Bilbo unconscious and Kili having to watch as the trolls boil his companions.

He is grateful when they crush his chest accidentally.

***

Kili now has too many reasons to have nightmares to sleep. He awakens at Bag End, and resolves only to do what he must and no more. While this strategy does not save them from the close encounters, it gets them far – over the Misty Mountains, through Mirkwood and into Laketown.

Then the boats sink.

***

One of the most horrible moments occurs when they have reached Erebor and instead of letting Bilbo go with Gandalf, Thorin drives Orcrist through the hobbit’s chest. It’s not an instant death, and the heart-breaking expression on Bilbo’s face in those last moments burns itself on the back of Kili’s eyelids.

Fili and him die in the battle – dwarves against men and elves – long before the orcs arrive. He doesn’t particularly care to wake up again.

***

Then there is the incident where Smaug incinerates them all. They did not manage to close the door in time – or rather, Smaug is upon them too early, and Bilbo not conscious to warn them.

Thankfully, it is quicker than even Bofur’s words suggested. There is no pain.

***

Kili becomes notably silent and withdrawn. When he looks upon the faces of his friends, he invariably cannot help but recall the many horrible ways he has seen them die in. Twisted limbs, charred faces and blood-soaked garments.

Fili and Thorin worry, especially when the nightmares set in.

And when they’ve very barely made it to Rivendell, Kili can’t bear it anymore. He chooses Elrond of all people, to confess his secret to, but the elf lord is as mystified as Kili feels.

“There is a task you must fulfill, then,” he concludes, “And until you have fulfilled it, you will continue to relive this.”

Kili wonders if this task is supposed to be winning back Erebor with everybody alive. Which is, to be honest, in his very own interest, so he nods, takes a deep breath and steels his resolve.

It surprises many when Kili abruptly takes an interest in planning their routes. And it takes much convincing for Thorin to accept the suggested alterations – but eventually Kili is happy that they skirt the giants, goblins and spiders as far as possible.

The detour is lengthy, but they are making good time. And the land yields rich foods and little trouble, so Kili’s heart begins to feel lighter.

Until one evening they stumble over the fortress of Dol Guldur.

It does not feel abandoned.

That night, temperatures drop farther than they ought to this time of the year. Kili can see his own breath misting in the air. Bombur has first watch, but sleep does not come. It is eerily quiet around them, almost ominously so.

Kili wakes moments later; his body stiff with cold, to the sound of Balin’s rasping breath. Blood covers the dwarf’s chest, but what transfixes his eyes is the ghostly creature standing over him. It is not a ghost, but neither is it mortal.

And Dwalin’s axe passes right through it.

The thing – it has two arms, two legs and its skull looks almost human – swats Dwalin aside like a fly, not even bothering to look whether he stays down (and he does.  Kili can’t see whether his chest rises and falls).

With a yell, the rest of the company is upon their otherworldly opponent. And it is useless. Bifur is thrown against a pillar and Nori collapses, blood blossoming from a chest wound. Kili hangs back, frozen – Orcrist and Sting glow, even though there are no orcs around.

The strange being’s blade also cuts easily through armor. Fili looks just as surprised as the rest of the company, before his eyes roll back and he falls. Kili’s arrow passes right through the being’s ghostly frame – only Orcrist’s stike is blocked.

There’s an odd echo to the ring when those two blades clash. It’s nothing Kili has heard before, and the air is still so dreadfully cold. Something isn’t right, he thinks, something about this is wrong, beyond the evil of goblins and orcs.

Before him, the other members of the company continue to crumble.

Kili contemplates taking Sting from Bilbo – the hobbit clutches the blade in desperation – but then decides to let things be. When the being turns upon him, he doesn’t defend himself.

***

And yet, the sense of marrow-deep cold follows him to Bag End. Something evil clung to that creature, something not-human – and Kili knows he will risk no other detour again. Not if these are the dangers lurking outside of the road.

Instead he will take his chances with whatever powers are making him relive this.

He forces the company to wait – Thorin is not happy, and Gandalf surprised, but Kili’s sudden serious demeanor stays their protests – and once Bilbo has prepared breakfast he shares his memories. Even surrounded by incredulous faces, Kili feels a lot of better. Bearing this burden in silence is nothing he can do any longer, not when he only sees his friends and family die.

Dori is the first one to inquire if Kili’s certain this is not a very vivid nightmare – which is nothing shameful, he hurries to assure, most warriors suffer from them. Gandalf coughs and clears his throat.

“I have never heard of something like this,” the wizard admits, “Yet I do think it might be wise to follow Master Kili’s lead in this.”

They depart with a far greater deal of caution, and no small sense of perturbation. Kili is perhaps the only one happy, and only too willing to answer Balin’s and Gandalf’s questions when they confer with him for details.

Yet Fili is the one to draw him into his arms that night, and for the first time in a very long while Kili sleeps a good night’s sleep. He awakes the next morning in far better spirits, though his companions do not share them.

The trolls are hardly a worry this time. Trickery to lead them into the daylight, and the treasure is theirs. Still, they make certain to set up camp elsewhere.

Thorin and most are still hesitant to travel to Rivendell, especially when there is no orc pack chasing them – and as Kili already knows the location of the hidden door.  Yet Gandalf, Balin and even Thorin agree that there are apparently certain events in Kili’s tale that must come to pass. Bilbo comments he would have liked to meet Radagast and Gandalf frowns, recalling the parcel Kili mentioned.

Things are changing, again, and Kili can only hope this won’t end in a disaster.

Knowing what they do, they avoid the Thunder Battle, but not the goblins. It is uncomfortable, and Kili is scratched by a blade, yet the fight in itself seems a bit easier for him from one time to the next. At least, as long as his opponents stay in the same positions.

He is glad when Bilbo rejoins them on the outside. All of them are – Kili has only once heard the tale of what happened to the hobbit beneath the mountain, yet without his magical ring the quest is bound to fail. They all know this, which is why there are no harsh words this time. Only Bilbo who keeps looking unconvinced at the part he must play.

Much as it is an indication of them being on time, Kili is not happy to hear the wargs bowl.

This time, though, Gandalf is quicker to call the eagles. And with Kili, Fili and Balin clinging to his coat, Thorin does not leave the tree to confront Azog. They win no victory there, but at least they all escape unharmed.

They can’t avoid the spiders of Mirkwood, but they stay on the path and meet no elves. Rationing their food early on helps to make it last much longer, though the company has difficulties retaining their good cheer. Kili can’t look at his brother during those last days – the gaunt, pale features remind too much of how Fili had looked in death.

But then they are out, and well-received in Laketown. Kili informs Bard of Smaug’s weakness right away – perhaps then the devastation won’t be as dire.

Events, however, have been altered too far for this to come to pass. It is not Bard who slays Smaug, it is Kili himself. Instead of hiding inside the tunnel, he has hidden himself in one of the old guard houses, Thorin and Fili not too far, both with bow and arrow. Bilbo is wearing his ring and shouting at the dragon, drawing it closer and yet keeping it from striking.

Kili’s heart is racing as he quietly notches the arrow.

“So what good will your dwarves do, then? Do they not see my armor, oh barrel-rider?” Smaug inquires.

Bilbo replies: “Your armor glitters most bewitchingly in the sun, dragon-under-the-mountain.”

“Perhaps it has blinded them,” Smaug replies.

Bilbo continues with compliments and small riddles, while Kili takes aim. Thorin mirrors his movements, but it is Kili who sees the dragon’s weakness.

He breathes in.

And fires the arrow.

Smaug screeches, and a ball of fire erupts from his jaw. The mountainside is tumbling, and Kili’s world dissolves into a mix of fiery red and black.

When he comes to, he is many meters further down, half buried by rubble. Nearby, Thorin and Fili have started digging themselves out, groaning, but clearly uninjured.

“Is he…” Kili asks, rooted to the spot. There’s smoke rising from down below.

“Dead,” Fili replies, “Brilliant shot, little brother.”

And the expression on Thorin’s face is beyond words, really. It makes it worth having lived through so many deaths and disasters to see Thorin smile at him with so much pride and happiness that Kili feels his heart must burst.

There is one last hiccup at the battle of the five armies. Thranduil and Dain are much slower to arrive as no war appears imminent – until the elves show up Kili is not even certain Thranduil will come – yet offering Bard and the Laketown citizens refuge in Erebor is a wise move.

The battle is still hard and many die. Kili spends the entirety of it fearing for Fili’s life, but they both make certain not to wander far from the main host. And by combining their efforts with Dwalin’s, they can keep Thorin from chasing after Azog as well.

Heavy wounds are suffered, but Kili has never felt happier than once the battle is done.

And when the sun rises on the reclaimed kingdom, Kili smiles.

“Breakfast’s ready,” Fili calls out from behind him.

Kili casts on last glance at the sunrise – the clear sky seems full of promise this morning – before he turns and limps after his brother.

_Fin_   



	7. Hamfast Gamgee does not like dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adventure of the company as seen from Hamfast Gamgee's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea that wouldn't leave me alone... and then didn't quite know how to finish. Perhaps there's somebody who enjoys reading it? A bit angsty, and yes, Hamfast is somewhat xenophobic, so feel free to point out if you think he's too ooc or something in general is off.

Hamfast Gamgee does not like dwarves. It’s not an especially new conclusion, nor a recent development – Hamfast, like most his fellow hobbits, is weary of strangers. Not because he believes them to mean ill or be dangerous, but for the far more practical reason that unknown habits easily produce grief and misunderstandings.

And in the Shire, misunderstandings and really, any sort of disturbance to the tranquil landscape, are unwelcome. So hobbits avoid dealing with strangers, even if they may enjoy tales of faraway countries and past heroics to accompany a hearty meal on a warm summer’s night. In the end, the peace of the Shire is what is home, and tales are just tales. And that is fine.

Hamfast is no different in this. He thinks he might like to meet an elf, at least they sound nice in those tales. Men are slightly more familiar – some of his relatives regularly deal with them in Bree, and Hamfast likes them well enough. Like with hobbits, he likes some more than others, but some of their customs in general leave him bemused. Perhaps it comes with being tall, he thinks to himself.

He hasn’t heard much about dwarves, but that their crafts must be fantastic and their kingdoms splendid. Hamfast thinks the wares on Hobbiton’s market are splendid enough for his likening, and he has some difficulty imagining how the dark interior of a mountain could be a sparkling kingdom.   

Then comes the day when Bilbo Baggins vanishes after a rag-tag group of dwarves and the Shire is in an uproar. Hamfast himself hears the tale of Bilbo shouting “I’m going on an adventure”, and if he didn’t know the hobbit telling it so well, he’d be inclined to think him a liar.

After all, one of the Bracegirdles who saw some of the dwarves commented how they looked worn, grim and not at all trustworthy. So perhaps they kidnapped poor Bilbo – it’s not a secret that the hobbit has inherited a considerable fortune. Lobelia instantly offers to check upon Bilbo things and Hamfast, familiar with the odd relationship of Bilbo and Lobelia, steps in, saying he will care for the smial in the meantime.

As he cleans the smial his thoughts start turning. There is not much in disarray – it certainly doesn’t look as if a fight occurred here, but then again, he doubts Bilbo would have tried to fight an armed opponent. There are, however, a number of small clues suggesting Bilbo left in a hurry.

If he is really off to an adventure…

Hamfast can’t help the soft smile spreading over his face.

He had already been a teen when Bilbo was worn, and much as his own younger siblings, Bilbo had wormed his way into his heart. It hadn’t hurt that Bilbo, unlike some of his cousins, had never particularly cared much for the social hierarchies of the Shire. He’d certainly learned to act his part as he grew up, yet Hamfast remained probably his closest confidant after his parents’ death.

And that had been a bitter blow. Hamfast remembers wondering how Bilbo felt – just past his majority, without any close relations and yet so many responsibilities and expectations. When, at least to Hamfast, Bilbo was still that small, well-spoken and incredibly kind young hobbit.

That now had run after a group of dwarves.

Well, Hamfast also remembers a young hobbit telling him how he’d like to go and see the folks and countries his books (already then not all of them written in a script Hamfast could read). Hopefully then, this adventure will brighten that smile that dimmed with Belladonna’s death again.

***

Bilbo returns one year later, just at the moment when Lobelia finally had him declared dead and his possessions put up for auction. Hamfast protested it fiercely, but in the end he holds none of the sway Lobelia does, and by now it’s not only her interested in a repartitioning of the Baggins’ fortune.

Hamfast stays back during the initial uproar. He does not hear what is said, instead takes the time to observe this very changed Bilbo Baggins.

The most striking are the foreign clothes. Most is hidden under an inconspicuous travel cloak – one that still is well made, trimmed with fur and held together by clasp that may be bronze, but may also be gold and is inlaid with a fine gemstone.

Underneath Hamfast spies rich blue fabric, golden trims and a hint of white silk. It screams of foreign finery, but what becomes more obvious then, is how thick and padded those clothes are. And that Bilbo’s cheeks are not gaunt, but his cheekbones are far more pronounced than Hamfast remembers them being.

He is thin, Hamfast realizes, unbecomingly so.

His manner, at least from afar, in negotiating with a furious Lobelia, an uncomfortable Otho and an exasperated Fortinbras Took remains genial, although he appears changed. It might be the weight loss impacting on Hamfast’s perception, yet this Bilbo Baggins appears harsher than the one that left the Shire.

It’s good for it ensures Lobelia won’t walk all over him, nor will any of the others abuse his kindness.

But for Hamfast, who had hoped for Bilbo to return with a wide smile and sparkling eyes, this is almost a disappointment. Yet it is also a hint that this adventure may have not gone easily. There’s a bandage peeking out from underneath a long sleeve when Bilbo raises his hand to gesticulate.

And Hamfast thinks he doesn’t like dwarves, because the adventure they brought Bilbo on did not go well. (Because he perhaps had hoped that they could achieve what he never managed).

***

Once the shadows lengthen, Hamfast announces to his family that he will set off to Bag End and visit Master Baggins. Technically, Bilbo is still his employer, and for that at least – if not for their former friendship – Hamfast wants to go.

Bell calls for him to wait a moment; she’ll provide him with some cake and sweets – because “you saw how thin he got. That’s really unacceptable,”  - and his children ask him just from where Master Baggins returned, and did he meet elves? Hamfast can only shrug and then has to promise he will find out.

Upon his knock (not the first, but he knows Bilbo sometimes ignores knocking when he doesn’t want visitors. The trick is to remain persistent. Bilbo has never been patient in this, and a number of hobbits know).

“Master Baggins,” he calls out, hoping his voice will still be familiar.

He doesn’t like it, but he is nervous. What if Bilbo changed so much he doesn’t really remember his gardener? What if somewhere on the quest he decided he would be well rid of this improper company?

The door opens, and Bilbo smiles at him from under too-long curls. “Hamfast!” he exclaimed, and the smile makes his face, thin as it is, glow, “It’s good to see you. I thought I saw you earlier, but you disappeared before I could greet you. But what’s with this Master Baggins nonsense?”

Hamfast smiles in return and shrugs, slightly embarrassed. He really oughtn’t have doubted Bilbo like that.

“Anyhow, do come in. I was just preparing a bite, and you’re welcome to join me. I hope you don’t mind the mess, though, I didn’t really manage to get settle yet,” Bilbo continues and waves Hamfast along to the kitchen.

In passing, he spies several bundles scattered along the entrance, most of them still tied close. There’s one in the kitchen, sitting next to a lonely plate that has been unwrapped and some its contents spewed on the table.

Upon Bilbo’s invitation, Hamfast takes a plate and a very small amount of food. The entire meal is tiny, far too tiny to even start filling his stomach. Bilbo, however, seems undisturbed. When Hamfast procures the pies, he chuckles and apologizes for the state of his pantry – there hadn’t yet been an opportunity to go shopping, and Hamfast feels relieved.

Now that the traveling cloak is gone, the weight loss is far more obvious. And even though the skin on Bilbo’s hands still looks soft, they now bear faint scars. There is a sword leaning against the wall, and while its presence perturbs Hamfast, Bilbo doesn’t even think about its presence.

It tells Hamfast a lot. Somehow this adventure must have familiarized Bilbo with weapons to the point that he doesn’t think anything of dropping one in his own kitchen. He tries and fails to imagine Bilbo using it – the image of a hobbit wielding a sword still seems bizarre.

The rest of the clutter is just as odd. Foreign currencies in gold, silver and bronze, a notebook, maps, three valuable-looking beads, letters, a wooden toy horse and a number of objects Hamfast doesn’t readily recognize.  

“It’s good to have you back,” he tells Bilbo after a while.

The hobbit smiles up from his food. In the candle light, the shadows underneath his eyes look darker, still.

“It’s good to be back,” he answers, “Thank you for taking care of Bag End while I was gone.”

“’twas nothing,” Hamfast says.

“How are your children?” Bilbo asks, and pushes his plate away. A part of Hamfast worries – hobbits ought to eat more, but he knows better than to push this subject.

“Shooting up like weeds,” he laughs, “With stomachs like bottomless pits. My oldest asked where you went, actually.”

Bilbo laughs, but a shadow crosses his face. “Quite a good distance away,” he replies in good humor, as if he didn’t even notice the shadow himself, “The kingdom of Erebor, to be precise.”

The name is unfamiliar, and Bilbo’s smile widens. “If he wants to, he’s welcome to visit. I could show him on a map --- as a matter of fact, why don’t you bring your entire family over for tea tomorrow? I’ll make certain my pantry is re-stocked, then.”

Hamfast hesitates to agree. Bilbo looks exhausted and more in need of rest than of company, but his cheer at the prospect is genuine.

***

Indeed, Hamfast’s children are the ones to first draw details of Bilbo’s adventure from the hobbit’s lips. To Bell and Hamfast he’s been polite, but rather vague – mentioning that he had been involved in battle, yes, and suffered injuries, too – thankfully none grave or permanent.

But it’s his sons who first hear the tale of the trolls. The children listen with rapt fascination, and break into giggles when Bilbo tells them how he suggested for the trolls to “skin them first”. There’s more incredulous laughter when Bilbo imitates a shout of “mine are the biggest parasites” and how the trolls, upon seeing the wizard asked “can we eat him, too?”

Bell and Hamfast listen with polite smiles, but Hamfast thinks that as light-hearted as the tale is, it can’t have been a humorous experience. To have been threatened by a troll… he shudders.

It doesn’t really get better.

His younger son absolutely adores tales of Radagast and his bunny-drawn sled. It goes to the point that Hamfast catches him trying to construct rabbit-sizes harnesses, and asks, again and again, for Bilbo to tell how Radagast tricked the wargs and orcs.

Hamfast wonders how Bilbo and his dwarf companions got out of the situation. It is one of the details Bilbo does not include in his tales.

“Erebor’s a dwarf kingdom, isn’ it?” Hamfast eldest asks one afternoon, “I foun’ somethin’ ‘bout it in a book. Said ‘twas taken by a dragon, though.”

Bilbo’s smile remains soft, as always when it’s directed at the children. His eyes, Hamfast observes, glaze over.

“Yes, it was a splendid kingdom, and I suppose by now it is so again,” there’s something achingly wistful in his eyes, and Hamfast wonders what happened.

“So wha’ happen’d to the dragon?” Hamfast’s son asks, “Did you kill it?”

Bilbo’s lips twitch. “Not quite – I don’t believe it would have been possible. You see, the dragon had teeth as long as my arm, and could breathe fire.”

“So wha’ did you do? How come the dragon’s gone now – did he leave? Was there a fight?” The boy’s eyes sparkle with excitement fueled by too many tales of noble deeds and famous heroes.

And Bilbo sees no need to disillusion the child entirely. “Well, you know, there were only fourteen of us, so we really couldn’t have fought the dragon. Instead, I snuck in.”

Hamfast’s breath catches. Sneak up on a dragon? He may not be learned on all the creatures of Middle Earth, but that does not sound like a feat to make light of.

“Why didn’t one of the dwarves go?” Bell asks, her voice congenial and curious. Hamfast wonders the same – why did thirteen dwarves, all experiences warriors one way or another, send forward one hobbit to confront their enemy.  

“The dragon had a fine nose,” Bilbo replies, “And it was well accustomed to the scent of dwarves. Not hobbits, though.” With a small shrug he turns back to the children.

“The first time, the dragon never noticed me, and I stole a golden cup directly from its horde,” Bilbo continues, his voice light as if retelling an incident of stealing apples from one of the Bolger’s apple trees, “But dragons are very aware, and Smaug more than others. He noticed at ones that something had gone missing. So the second time, he merely pretended to be asleep.”

The children lean forward eagerly, while Hamfast feels cold sweat forming on his back.

“He was furious, but also curious. And dragons love mysteries and compliments – they are very vain creatures. So I talked to Smaug and talked and he did show me his weakness – a spot on his belly that had neither armor nor was it hidden under scales or jewels, soft as a newborn’s skin.”

“I did, however, laugh at Smaug eventually. And if there is one thing that is a bad idea in this world, than it is to laugh at a dragon,” Bilbo concludes with a self-depreciating smile, “I barely escaped and even then my hair ends were scorched.”

Hamfast is reeling with horror. His sons still want to know what happened to the dragon.

“It was slain by Bard of Laketown,” Bilbo says, “Smaug left the mountain in search for us, and when he did not find us, he left for the town. Bard saw his weak spot and through his skill with the bow managed to slay it.”

Bilbo’s eyes say there’s a grim tale behind this. One he won’t tell the children. Nor one that he tells any other hobbit that asks.

***

While Bilbo’s adventure is a scandal among the Shire’s gentry, it’s an absolute favorite with the children. And once the adults note that Bilbo takes care not to scare his young audience, he becomes a popular guest at celebrations.

In this way, Hamfast learns the details.

For example, that one of the dwarves – named Bofur – did not lose his hat through all the trials they encountered.

That in east of the Misty Mountains lives a large skin changer by the name Beorn, one who is powerful ally, but not easy to win over.

That there are gigantic spiders living in Mirkwood, which in itself is a bewitched place. Its rivers cause a deep sleep and fantastic dreams; while its foliage is so thick no wind penetrates it.

He almost envies Bilbo for having seen Rivendell and met Lord Elrond. Thranduil of Greenwood sounds less likeable, considering Bilbo and the dwarves had to escape from his dungeons in wine barrels. This particular story is one of the absolute favorites, and come summer, Hamfast more than once catches sight of hobbits of all ages trying to navigate their way through the shallow rivers in barrels.

After a while, some of the dwarves sound sympathetic, too. Hamfast likes Balin – the figure of an old, wise advisor, and strangely Dwalin, too. If only for Bilbo’s throw away comment of having caught Dwalin with his hand in Bilbo’s cookie jar. Though apparently, the appendage had been too large to actually fit.

The tales are full of incredible creatures – Stone Giants, Goblins, giant Eagles and odd mountain dwellers that have to be defeated in a contest of riddles – amazing deeds and distant places. But they are also riddled with holes, and the more Hamfast listens, the more he notices them.

Bilbo does not gain back the roundness he had when he left, and sometimes Hamfast catches him staring longingly toward the east. He appears sad then, heartbroken, and Hamfast wonders just what the dwarves did to him.

Fili and Kili sound nice, though, if only for being young and enthusiastic. Bilbo does not talk much of them, nor does he say much of their leader – the King – and it’s only a question of time until one of the older hobbits asks.

“They fell,” Bilbo replies evenly, though under the table he clenches his fingers around the fabric of his trousers, “They fell in the battle of the five armies, just outside of Erebor.”

The battle is never part of Bilbo’s tales. It only ones is mentioned when one of the children asks if Bilbo got hurt – or has some impressive scar like some of the men in Bree, and Bilbo replies that he did get knocked around a bit, but that’s about it.

Hamfast wonders if Bilbo is not merely editing, but also lying. He can tell by now that there is one large scar all across Bilbo’s heart.

***

Bilbo does never fill the gaps, and Hamfast does not ask. He has an idea that some memories may be too painful to relive, and would still rather see Bilbo happy than grieved by bygones.

He still learns a number of little things. A year after Bilbo’s return he is sent a wagon load full of treasure chests, each filled with gold, gemstones and jewelry. The accompanying letters remain private, but Hamfast overhears the leader of the company guarding the treasure mentioning “reparations for past wrongs committed against you” and “I can’t take them back, my life would be forfeit with my King”.

Hamfast wonders what wrongs exactly the dwarves committed against Bilbo. But he’s happy enough that they realized it and are trying to apologize in their own way. He still thinks they should not have taken Bilbo along, or at least ensured, he walked from it with fewer grievances to bear.

The beads Hamfast spied that first evening are crafted from mithril, the most precious of all metals in medal earth. One of the books one of his now three sons brings home explains how beads are sacred to dwarves, and those with family seals only exchanged between family and lovers.

The blade is of ancient elvish make, though it’s engraving far more recent. It’s strange to think that Bilbo bears a named blade, like only the heroes of old legends do. It is kept in pristine condition, and Bilbo sometimes wears it when he travels – his movements, when he shows it to curious visitors, display that he knows how to use it, that he is familiar with that blade.

Curiosities and riches ensure Bilbo’s popularity in the Shire and among some a small degree of envy. Hamfast thinks those hobbits have to be blind, because no matter what Bilbo gained, what he lost on that adventure obviously had been far more precious.

***

One day in spring Bilbo asks Hamfast accompany him on a trip to Bree.

“You see, I promised to meet a dwarf – not one I have known directly, and I would be glad for company,” he explains and offers a handsome reward, since “I know Bell is with child, and it would be really impractical, but I am somewhat at a loss as for whom to ask.”

Hamfast is not interested in the reward. He would rather look after Bilbo – who is not all that good at it himself – because he knows his wife is more than capable of caring for herself. And indeed, she tells him to go along, and promises to ask one of her sisters to stay over in the meantime.

On the way to Bree Bilbo tells him he promised to meet Thorin’s sister, the only one with a stronger claim to Erebor’s throne than even its current King. Hamfast’s first reaction is to fret, because he’s dressed for travel, not for meeting fine people – though in honesty, he doesn’t think he owns any clothes nice enough to meet Kings and Queens.

They check in at the Prancing Pony, yet Bilbo explains they won’t be meeting Dis, sister to the late Thorin, King under the Mountain, there.

It’s the first time after his return that Bilbo wears foreign clothes. Not the ones he wore on his arrival, but a much more splendid set that almost seems to imitate hobbit style. Noting Hamfast’s curious eyes, Bilbo shrugs.

“They arrived with the treasure chests. The accompanying letter suggested they were for better occasions during travel – preferable to borrowing the clothes of human children, certainly,” he explains while he leads Hamfast into the direction of one impressive town house with brightly lit windows.

The light catches the highlights in Bilbo’s hair, and the ornate decorations on his clothes. Some of them look to be real gemstones, and Hamfast falls a step behind Bilbo as they approach the two armed dwarves guarding the door.

“What is your purpose?” one inquires harshly.

Bilbo remains calm. “My name is Bilbo Baggins and I have been invited to meet Dis, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, here tonight.”

Instantly, the dwarf’s features transform. Cold mistrust is replaced by marvel, and he bows his head.

“Apologies, Master Baggins. You are being expected upstairs.”

Hamfast is distracted by the splendid interior, but he doesn’t miss the way Bilbo clenches and unclenches his fists, worries his lip and takes several deep breaths. A pair of wide-open double-winged doors let into a room that occupies the entirety of the second floor.

The smell of rich food is in the air, and Hamfast startles at the number of guards motionless in the shadows. On the other side, large windows lead out onto a spacious balcony.

A lone dwarf – dressed much more finely than all the others – raises from the table.

“Bilbo Baggins,” she greets and inclines her head. Hamfast sees a small crown sparkle, then. Next to him, Bilbo bows. “Lady Dis.”

If he is nervous, there is no tell.

Lady Dis, who, Hamfast repeats to himself, is probably among the richest and most powerful beings on Middle Earth, smiles at Bilbo.

“Long have I waited for this moment,” she says, “Your friends have told me much of you, and I will not deny they woke my curiosity. I hope you are willing to indulge me tonight, though I’m afraid I can’t vouch for dinner – my cooks did inquire locally, but it seems little is known about hobbit cuisine.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the only known fact was that we eat seven times a day,” Bilbo replies with a smile, “And the food smells rather lovely already. So I would thank you for your invitation and apologize for my unannounced companion. May I introduce my friend Hamfast Gamgee?”

Belatedly Hamfast realizes he is spoken about, and hurries to bow as deeply as his back permits. He accidentally pulls his shirt from his trousers, and feels his face turning red from embarrassment.

Lady Dis smiles at him – while he can’t still look her in the eye, afraid he will stare. Only upon closer observation her features reveal themselves to be female.

“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Bilbo Baggins,” she says, “And most welcome.”

Dinner proceeds quite well and Hamfast is glad not to have to contribute too much. He will gladly answer the lady’s questions on hobbit customs, but is careful to follow Bilbo’s lead. Even when Bilbo claims his return to the Shire was not much trouble – really, Hamfast thinks, only your relatives had declared you dead.

 Most of the time Lady Dis and Bilbo exchange news of old friends, much of it interspersed with laughter. Bard, it turns out, has little understanding of architecture and is utterly lost on that aspect of rebuilding Dale. There is an amusing rumor of how, after another of Thranduil’s feasts, a number of elves attempted to re-enact the barrel escape. Accounts on whether or not Thranduil was along that number differ, but the tale still makes Bilbo and Dis laugh, and Hamfast chuckles along.

Radagast is back in his wood, eating mushrooms, while Gandalf keeps traveling the world, consuming pipe weed and setting off fireworks. Saruman keeps to his tower, mostly exasperated. It’s peaceful on Middle Earth, even though orcs remain in Moria.

“Balin means to set out to retake it,” Dis says over desert.

“Is it feasible?” asks Bilbo. Neither of them looks particularly happy at the idea.

“There is strength enough to our numbers,” Dis replies, “Though risks remain. And Dain already said he really can’t feasibly rule over a third mountain as well – he is already going grey faster than they can ship that special dye up from Gondor.”

Hamfast is somewhat surprised to learn that dwarves dye their hair. As he later finds out, this is indeed unusual. And the particular dye seems quite popular among Gondor’s female members of nobility. From Dis’ smile that is something they make sure not to let Dain forget about.

After dinner Hamfast remains seated at the table while Bilbo and Dis wander outside. Their voices grow softer, and from Bilbo’s face Hamfast can tell the subject has become more intimate. He is content to remain behind, then.

Still, from time to time, the warm wind carries over fragments of their conversation.

“… thank you for being there…”

“… regret this loss. They …”

“… wonder if I should have forbidden…”

“… many things…”

There is a short lull, and then Dis’ voice is audible again. “… he loved you, I think.”

***

Years pass and Bilbo regains his equilibrium. He never returns entirely to the hobbit he had been – still stares into the distance, and once even travels to Rivendell, again. Then a delegation of dwarves visits – not just any dwarves, rumors claim, but some of the highest importance. Some hobbits remember then that Bilbo traveled in the company of a king, so he must be of some importance among the dwarves, now, too.

Nobody is too certain, though, and the rumors eventually are nothing more than a way to pass the time. Until elves visit and the tongues start wagging again. Bilbo’s reputation suffers, naturally, yet as he is considered rich beyond measure by Shire standards he remains welcome at all social functions.

And the children still love his tales.

Bilbo himself is not as concerned as he was in his younger years to uphold his respectability. He remains polite and utterly kind, but now is well willing to draw lines, as Lobelia soon finds out.

The situation turns once more when Drogo and Primula drown, and, after a while, Bilbo decides to adopt his young nephew. Hamfast is glad for him, not only because Frodo and his Samwise become fast friends, but also because with Frodo at his side Bilbo appears a lot of more content than he has looked in a long time.

From then on, there’re seven meals a day appearing on the table in Bag End again.

_Fin_


	8. the Aftermath of Riding Barrels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the kink meme.   
> Prompt (paraphrased): Bilbo gets hurt during the barrel ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some angst, some blood, some drama.   
> First posted here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=2740411#t2740411

“Never again,” Kili groans, while Fili is busy being sick. Balin is wringing the water out of his beard and clothes, and Thorin thinks they have rarely looked more pathetic. Gloin looks green, and Dwalin is leaning on his axe, rather than standing upside.

His own head is ringing and he can’t remember ever having felt this sore, but they are alive and unharmed. As the sickness abates, he starts to feel remorse about his harsh words to Bilbo – regardless of his condition, their burglar is owed some thanks for rescuing them.

Even if Thorin hopes he never has to be rescued like this again.

“We should make for Laketown,” Oin mutters, yet makes no attempt to get up.

“Sure,” Bofur chimes in, “And they’ll love us, wet and smelly and throwin’ up everywhere.”

As if on cue, Ori doubles over, and the noise is enough to make Thorin feel queasy again. He turns away, and his eyes find Bilbo, who is curled up against one of the barrels, still sitting in the shallow water. His head is bowed, hiding his face from view and unless Thorin is mistaken, he is trembling.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says, “You should come out of the water.”

Bilbo looks up, and his eyes are glazed. “Oh, yes,” he mutters softly, as if realizing it only now. He pushes himself up, and sways. Thorin reaches out and helps Bilbo to stumble out of the water, and then makes certain the hobbit sits on a dry spot of land.

He doesn’t like how pale Bilbo is, but that may have been due to the currents of the river. What is obvious, however, is that where they are merely wet, Bilbo is completely soaked. They’ll need a warm and dry place to sleep tonight unless they want the hobbit to fall sick – if it isn’t too late for this already.

A faint sound emerges from the hobbit’s throat – and Thorin can see Bilbo’s shoulders shake as he is obviously suppressing an urge to cough. He’s still trembling, so Thorin shrugs off his coat and drapes it over Bilbo’s shoulders.

“We need to get going,” Thorin tells the company, “By nightfall, these shores will not be safe, and we have no weapons to defend ourselves. Laketown is not far, and will at least provide shelter.”

Thranduil’s guards may yet come looking for them as well, but Thorin does not say it. He hopes they’ll be safe enough in Laketown.

Wearily, the company readies itself. Fili leans heavily on Kili, who does not look particularly steady on his feet, either. Dori, white as chalk, has Ori on his back and looks determined. Gloin leans heavily against a tree, and Oin hasn’t bothered climbing to his feet yet. Bilbo makes to return the coat, but Thorin only shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says. With the bluish tint to Bilbo’s lips, the hobbit looks as if he has far greater need of it.

They are in a sorry state, although Thorin has a faint hope their clothes might at least dry until they reach Laketown. He is not particularly happy about visiting it, because their presence might easily inspire local adventurers and greed.

But they don’t have a choice.

***

It is slow going. The shore is overgrown with trees and bushes, and rarely there is a path to follow. Thorin slowly regains his equilibrium, though he will be glad to rest his head tonight. Everybody remains pale, and even Balin can’t keep from stumbling every now and then.

Kili is dragging his feet, and Fili still looks green in the face. Thorin can’t help worrying now – his nephew is not recovering, whereas Ori has regained his feet, and Bofur already walks a bit less crooked.

He hopes there’s no hidden injury – Bilbo promised him his company was well, but he has not yet had an opportunity to make his own inquiries. Perhaps the hobbit missed something…

“Wait!” Dwalin shouts out, abruptly.

Thorin turns, and sees how Dwalin gently but certainly guides Bilbo to the ground; the hobbit leaning weakly against Dwalin’s arm. Bilbo’s breath is fast and shallow, and Oin is on his way over before anybody can mutter a word.

“Open his shirt,” Oin orders, not paying attention to the inquisitive eyes looking over his shoulder. Bilbo seems senseless, his eyes open but unfocused. Half-wrapped in Thorin’s coat and leaning against Dwalin’s broad frame, the hobbit looks eerily fragile, and Thorin can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine at this.

Neither the hiss that escapes his lips when the soaked fabric is pulled from Bilbo’s chest.

The bruises have not yet fully formed, but the entire right side of Bilbo’s chest is discolored and sore. Some abrasions bleed sluggishly and Thorin feels relieved at finding no deep injuries. It’s a false sense of security – he knows that the injuries under the skin are at times far worse and more deadly.

As Oin’s fingers ghost across Bilbo’s chest, Thorin becomes aware of a second change that makes his stomach churn uneasily. Each of Bilbo’s ribs is clearly visible against the discolored skin – he’s too thin, like all of them grew to be in Mirkwood. However, as Thorin and the other dwarves regained their strength on their prisoners’ fare, Bilbo had to make do on scraps.

And Thorin curses himself for not noticing earlier.

“How is he?” he asks Oin.

The healer’s face grows ever darker, and Thorin can’t help the anxiety rising in his chest. “I can’t say yet,” Oin replies, “His ribs are not broken, but bruised if not cracked. It’s too early to say if there’s any internal damage.”

Thorin feels his heart drop and Dwalin stiffens. They are far too familiar with those kind of injuries.

“Best thing is to get him to Laketown as quick as possible,” Oin concludes.

***

They try their best, and yet it is nightfall when they arrive. The air has grown cold, and Bilbo is shuddering, even with Thorin’s thick coat wrapped around his shoulders. He is feverish and delirious – which is perhaps a good thing, since for now he does not seem to be in any pain.

Still, Thorin feels introductions in Laketown take far too long. The Master is obviously not concerned with the health of the company’s smallest member, but rather interested in winning Thorin’s favor. As it becomes inevitable that Thorin must join him for an elaborate dinner, he agrees to split their company – Thorin, Balin and Fili will attend the dinner, while the rest heads to a house the Master has promised to provide them with.

With a heavy heart, Thorin watches them vanish. He hopes for things to turn out well – and beyond everything, he hopes that Bilbo will recover easily.

***

Night has long since fallen when Thorin eventually returns. The house is spacious, warm and well-furnished and this sets his mind at ease. Furthermore, the Master has promised to provide them with everything necessary – hopefully this will extend to healers.

Most of the house is silent. Oin awaits them in the entrance room – his expression is grim.

Thorin swallows, and it is Fili who starts forward. “How is Master Baggins?” he asks, “Did something happen?”

Oin sighs. Thorin holds his breath and tries to steel himself – he has received ample bad news in his life, one more should not matter this much – yet all he can see is how pale Bilbo looked, and how that lively spark in him seemed all but extinguished.

“He is resting,” Oin says, choosing his words with care, “But we have to look how his condition develops – it’s still too early to tell.”

Too early to tell just how damaged the body is underneath the bruising Thorin has seen. Too early to tell whether this injury may yet turn fatal.

As if sensing his thoughts, Oin adds. “You should, however, be aware that of an hour ago, Master Baggins has begun coughing up blood.”

And Thorin feels the ground drop out from beneath him.

***

It takes a lot of coaxing for Fili to join his brother and rest. Dwalin sits as a silent guarding statue next to Bilbo’s bedside, unmoving and unwilling to take his eyes off of their hobbit. Once the remaining noises in the house die down – even with all the worry, the company is exhausted – Oin draws himself another chair and sits down in a corner. Thorin takes the last remaining chair in the room.

None of them will sleep tonight.

Yet in the silence, Thorin can’t stop his thoughts from wandering. Inevitably he remembers how badly he treated Bilbo initially – and how he once again failed to thank their burglar after their escape. It turns out, now, that the price Bilbo paid for it was much higher than they all anticipated.

And he can only hope he will be granted an opportunity to express his gratitude.

A part of him wonders whether he would be sitting here had Bilbo not proven his worth over and over again. Recalling his dark mindset, he is afraid of the answer. Sitting here he realizes that being present when one of his companions lingers so close to death is the least he can do – when he has failed in keeping them from harm.

A weak cough from Bilbo lips has Oin on his feet. Dwalin tenses, and Thorin wants to jump up – but he can do nothing, but sit while the coughs, wet and hacking, shake Bilbo’s body. Oin keeps a handkerchief pressed to his lips, and even before he says a word, Thorin sees the shade of fresh red coloring Bilbo’s lips.

“Are his lungs injured?” he asks, and his voice sounds strangely even.  There is little that can be done for lung injuries – their healers can cut into stomachs and muscles, but cut into a lung and it’s a painful death.

Oin shrugs. “It’s too early to tell. Though his fever is rising – could you fetch me some cold cloth or something?”

Dwalin nods in agreement, and Thorin is, once again, left to sit and watch.

And he has never felt so helpless.

***

No matter what Oin does, Bilbo’s fever keeps rising. Thorin offers to send for some of Laketown’s healers – they will find some way to afford their services – yet Oin shakes his head.

“They won’t be able to tell you anything different,” he says, “It’s wait and see.”

The hours crawl past. Oin tries, without success, to convince Dwalin or Thorin to leave and catch some sleep. But Thorin feels responsible, and Dwalin keeps his guard – perhaps in a desperate hope to let not even death sneak past him.

In the early hours, when the sky is just starting to grow light in the far east, Bilbo wakes from his uneasy slumber. His fever has not yet broken, although his eyes are clear. Fatigue has drawn deep shadows underneath his eyes, and his cheeks look hollow.

Oin forces him to drink at once, and Dwalin needs to hold him up for it.

“What are all of you doing here?” Bilbo asks; his voice hoarse and slurred.

“Keeping an eye on you, master hobbit,” Dwalin replies.

Bilbo manages to raise an eyebrow. “Well, that is rather too …”

He can’t finish the sentence before he starts coughing. It’s worse now that he is awake – the coughs shakes his body and cause obvious pain. Thorin can tell from the way his brow ceases and he lies stiff on the bed – and his body trembles even when the coughing subsides.

Then Bilbo withdraws his hand and sees the blood staining it.

“Oh dear,” he whispers. A heartbeat later, “Well, I guess that explains it.”

He draws a shaky breath and attempts to smile. Thorin feels his heart breaking.

“Is this it?” Bilbo asks, softly, “Am I going to die?”

Thorin wants to shout. To scream “NO!” and have the world listen to him. But he has desired this too often, and too often been disappointed already. Dwalin looks grieved, but leans forward.

“We don’t intend to let you,” he tells Bilbo.

Oin, who has not heard the question – though he did hear Dwalin’s reply, nods.

Bilbo smiles. It’s a gentle expression, and so much more than Thorin thinks they deserve.

“I’d really rather not,” Bilbo says. Already his eyes are closing, and Thorin wants to tell him to stay awake – he’s afraid of seeing Bilbo so still again.

“Well, if you want to heal, you will need all the rest you can get,” Oin says, and with that Bilbo lets his head drop back against the pillow. Thorin stays, even as Oin gathers his things, muttering about how he’ll need to send somebody to the market. He also advises that somebody should stay with Bilbo at all times.

***

The silence, after Oin and Dwalin have left, is deafening. Bilbo’s harsh and shallow breathing is amplified, and Thorin can’t tear his gaze from the hobbit’s pale face. Even in sleep (or unconsciousness? It is difficult to tell) a pained frown mars his features.

Perhaps he dreams, for sometimes Bilbo flinches or mutters, or tries to turn, but Oin has bundled him too well into the thick blankets to allow much movement. Considering the damage done to Bilbo’s chest, Thorin knows it is a wise move.

Still, his heart aches at the sight of Bilbo’s hand twitching helplessly against the cover, as another cough steals his breath. Thorin leans forward with a clean handkerchief to dabble away the blood – not much, and he is indescribably thankful for it.

Even without Oin’s explanations he knows how coughing up blood often foreshadows death.

When he sits back this time, he takes Bilbo’s hand between his own. The appendage is small – tiny against his own hands, really, and remarkably soft. It has been easy to forget just how unused their burglar is to adventures recently – Bilbo’s cunning and courage have made him appear larger to them all.

The contrast between his hand and Bilbo’s reminds them of the differences – of how easily Bilbo can come to harm – and already has. Thorin vows to himself not to forget in the future. He hopes he will have the chance –

For tonight, though, he will sit at Bilbo’s bedside. That, if the worst must come to pass, at least their hobbit will not be alone.

***

Come morning, Bilbo’s fever is dangerously high. Oin has set Fili to constantly mopping the hobbit’s brow with cold water, and the few instances Bilbo regains consciousness, he’s delirious and babbling nonsense.

Oin manages to make him swallow a broth for both nourishment and healing. After that he asks Thorin – as he refuses to leave Bilbo’s side – to help when he unbuttons Bilbo’s garments. The shirt they dressed him in last night is much too large and slips easily past his shoulders – revealing a chest painted in blue and purple.

Fili sucks in a loud breath through his teeth, and even Thorin can’t help the desperation coiling in his stomach. He has seen less colorful chest contusions on dead warriors – for Bilbo to still draw breath is nothing short of a miracle.

“It didn’t look so bad yesterday,” Fili says, his voice choked, while Oin’s fingers dance along the visible outline of ribs.

“Some injuries are slower to show up than others,” Oin replies, “But if we’re lucky, this is the full extent of it.”

 Thorin wonders how this can be considered lucky.

Oin leans back and sighs. “The ribs are cracked, but I didn’t detect any splintering. I guess he might have slammed against rocks in the river, which caused the bruising.”

“Is there an injury to his lungs?” Thorin asks. His palms are sweaty.

“Only minor ones, as far as I can tell,” Oin replies, “A puncture or anything and he’d already be gone.”

“Then why is he coughing up blood?” Fili inquires.

Oin shrugs. “There might be several reasons. You saw that some of the abrasions on his chest were bad enough to bleed – the same could have happened to his lungs. Then he probably swallowed some gravel and water – and he’s coming down with a nasty cold, I’m afraid.”

“But he’ll be alright?” Fili asks, sounding incredibly hopeful.

To Thorin’s delight, Oin half-smiles in reply. “If the fever doesn’t boil his brain and he stays off his feet for the next week or so – I don’t see any reason why not.”

In consequence, his nephews are particularly enthusiastic about lowering Bilbo’s fever, and Thorin lets himself be coaxed into a bed one room farther as well.

***

It takes three days until Bilbo recovers enough to be conscious and capable of conversation. The fever has left him exhausted and he barely is awake for more than an hour, but his pallor no longer looks as deathly.

Thorin makes certain to visit him each day, even when the Master and all of Laketown’s inhabitants seem intend to meet with him. He’s offered food, tokens, and once they learn of Bilbo’s sickness, all variations of medicines. Thorin declines, because Oin has declared rest to be the best cure – and Thorin can’t help but being suspicious of the strange tinctures shoved before him.

Most of the times, Bilbo is already asleep when he visits. Tonight, however, the hobbit opens his eyes when he enters.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets, sounding faintly surprised. He makes a short attempt to sit up, but Oin has once again tucked the blankets down tightly.

“Stay down, master Hobbit,” Thorin replies, “Oin told me you are not supposed to sit up, anyway.”

Bilbo sighs – though it remains shallow, revealing that his chest still pains him. “And he has made certain I am more than aware of it,” he says, “But then, will you sit somewhere I can see you?”

With a lighter heart Thorin crosses the chamber and sinks down on the chair that is already positioned in Bilbo’s line of sight. The hobbit’s cheeks are flushed – the fever is not yet gone – but he smiles.

“How are you feeling?” Thorin asks. His conscience is urging him to seek forgiveness, although he is weary of demanding this when Bilbo is still unwell.

The hobbit raises an eyebrow. “Like a turtle on its back?” he answers, “In all honesty, I have felt better. But I am warm, rested and my only complaint would be that the ceiling does grow boring after a while.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Thorin says, “And maybe we can do something about the ceiling.”

Bilbo’s eyes sparkle. “I believe Ori has some talent at drawing.”

“That he does, though I’m not certain if our hosts would approve,” says Thorin. He feels how the tension that held his muscles stiff the last days begins to dissolve. Warmth floods his body, and he sits easier while Bilbo smiles.

After a moment, Bilbo’s expression grows a little more solemn. “I, well, I hope this is not too much of a bother.”

Thorin shakes his head. “Not at all. There is still a lot of time left – all the time you need to recover.”

“That, that is good to hear,” Bilbo says and blushes, “And I meant to, uhm, apologize for the disturbance? My memory is not quite clear, but I think it was quite embarrassing – I’m afraid having a fever always makes me rather melodramatic.”

For a moment Thorin recalls those tense hours. He leans forward and catches Bilbo’s gaze. “There is nothing to apologize for – and you were not overly dramatic, you truly could have died.”

He needs Bilbo to understand how close he was to losing him – and how unacceptable that would have been.

“Oh,” Bilbo mutters faintly, “Then… well, then I hopes whoever renders this as a story at least makes it a little less embarrassing.”

Thorin can’t help feeling amazed. “I think that could be done. But I have an apology of my own to make – once again I must ask you to forgive me how I treated you. When your actions rescued us, I ought to have thanked you from the bottom of my heart- instead I was angry and ignored even your injuries.”

A small hand settles over Thorin’s own. The dwarf looks up, and Bilbo is gently smiling at him. “I have to admit I had hoped for a kinder treatment – but you did not know I was hurt, and I think the ride had us all rather beside ourselves. So it’s all water under the bridge.”

“You are much too kind,” Thorin replies and grasps Bilbo’s hand with his own.

_Fin_


	9. 13 + 1 Protecting what is theirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13 times the dwarves were protective of Bilbo and 1 time he protected them in return. A little angst, a little drama, some fluff ... and no fix-it for BotFA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as the second fill for this prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1000134#t1000134

Dori has joined in with Thorin’s quest against many good reasons. He has a family to look after; one he had never wanted on this quest. He has about no personal ties connecting him to Erebor, and he is affluent enough that the treasures of Erebor do not call to him.

Yet here he and his brothers are. Nori had forced his hand – he does not know whether by accident or for Ori’s pleading. The rest of his companions may be a ragtag group, but he intends to honor their courage, if not their intentions. And he will not loudly disagree with Thorin’s choices.

The matter of Mister Baggins, however, is slightly different. Gandalf may have had his reason, but Dori sees a gentle creature that will easily perish in the wild. He also sees a kind heart that will inevitably suffer from the traditional secretiveness of dwarvish society. And he sees a small and vulnerable being, smaller than Ori and much less experienced.

He wonders how Thorin can allow this one to come, when he had initially not wanted his own nephews to join – his nephews who are both far more skilled in battle than the hobbit is. So when they are set upon by wargs, Dori keeps behind Bilbo, ready to pick him up should he fall or stumble.

He would not have allowed Bilbo along, for the same reasons he did not want Ori to come – too innocent, too inexperienced, too kind – but for those reasons he will now also go and try to protect their hobbit. Because Bilbo, like Ori, is one of them.

 

***

When Bifur first sees Bilbo Baggins, he thinks of those precious china dolls the wealthy ladies of Dale used to decorate their rooms. Those are no toys to play with for they may shatter at the lightest touch; those exist to look pretty. And Bilbo in his fine clothes, smooth skin and golden curls just looks like a china doll.

So when Bofur’s words cause the hobbit to faint, Bifur is the one to step forward and pick up the slight creature. He wonders at what Gandalf is thinking – this person is not cut out for their quest, and Bifur has seen too many jaded eyes to know how precious that innocence this hobbit possesses truly is.

He is careful when he sets him down on an armchair, but retreats without saying anything to Gandalf. Bifur is surprised to see Bilbo join them the next day. Surprised, and worried, and if he makes sure to sit in a good spot to watch the hobbit’s back, nobody says a word.

 

***

"The wilderness is no place for fine people,“ Dwalin had said, and the words now echo in Kili’s ears. Before him, Bilbo is dangling from a troll’s hand, upside down and desperately trying to talk his way out of the situation. The troll’s fist wraps neatly around the lower half of Bilbo’s body, throwing the hobbit’s tiny size into stark relief. The troll could snap Bilbo in half if he wanted, and Kili feels his heart drop out.

Nobody is going to die on his watch, especially not kind, unarmed hobbits.

“Let go of him!” he yells, stumbling forward with his sword drawn. Sweat runs down his back as the trolls turn their attention to him. They are monstrous; dull, but large and strong, and Kili can only hope his blade will be able to cut their thick skin.

Abruptly, there’s a noise behind him. At the same time, one of the trolls shouts something, and Bilbo is sent flying into his direction. Kili tries his best to catch him, but can’t stop them both from tumbling to the ground. That he manages to cushion Bilbo’s landing is a small comfort, when he does not know if the hobbit is even alive.

Luckily, he is. Before Bilbo can even sit up, Kili clings onto his jacket and asks: “Are you hurt?”

Bilbo‘s face is stark white, his jacket covered in troll snot, and from the way he moves he has to be badly bruised. Yet he shakes his head.

“Are you sure?” Kili asks again, trying to observe what might be hidden underneath the clothes.

“No,” Bilbo replies, still looking spooked.

“Good. Then stay here,” Kili tells him.

Bilbo does not, and later, when everything is over, Kili drags him to Oin. It turns out Bilbo told the truth – beyond abrasions on his knees and elbows and a rather dark bruise on his stomach, he survived the encounter uninjured. Still Kili can’t help feeling concerned whenever he recalls just how fragile Bilbo appears, not only compared to the trolls, but also in comparison to the rest of their company.

 

***

With the ponies bolted, they have no food as they follow Gandalf deeper into the mountains. Bombur has a bit of bread stored on his person, Kili manages to shoot prey, and there are some plants along the path that are edible. Yet it is not much, and Bombur’s own stomach rolls painfully as the hours grow long.

Not many of the company seems disturbed yet – especially the young ones have recovered their good spirits after being initially dismayed at the lacking fare – but hunger is a trying companion. Bombur can’t help but look to their hobbit – he does not think anyone except him, and perhaps Gandalf, is aware of just how often hobbits eat. He remembers only because he found quite a curious fact when he stumbled upon it in some ancient book – he had certainly never expected for that knowledge to become relevant.

Bilbo says nothing. If he is hungry, he does not betray it in any way. Though Bombur sees that his clothing has grown loose, and it is the sword belt and suspenders that are holding the trousers on his hips. There is a sharpness to his face that was not there previously, and Bombur has caught Bilbo eyeing the sparse vegetation contemplatively.

He does not voice his thoughts – not to Thorin, neither to Bilbo. Not when Thorin is likely to demand proof, and Bilbo is bound to deny it. Instead, after another night Bombur spent listening to Bilbo shiver and turn to a growling stomach, he makes certain to include a little more substance in the broth Bilbo receives.

It does not stop Bilbo from growing thinner. There is simply not enough food for all of them anymore. But it stops the rapid weight loss that frightened Bombur more than anything.

 

***

“May I touch your ears, master hobbit?”

“Your curls? Is it acceptable to touch them?”

“How about the hair on your feet?”

“Do all hobbits have such curly hair?”

“Aren’t those ears adorable?”

“Are they very sensitive?”

The tableau Ori stumbles upon after he has finally slipped from his brother to seek Rivendell’s library, is rather amusing. Bilbo is surrounded by a number of elves, all of them almost twice his height and utterly fascinated with him.

And if the hobbit initially replied politely, he now sounds flustered. Not that the elves truly listen, as they are much too taken by his appearance. About three hands are tugging on Bilbo’s curls and another elf is quite busy pinching his ears – not that Bilbo looks happy about it.

Bilbo’s eyes find Ori’s – whom the elves haven’t even noticed – and plead.

The dwarf swallows. And then he calls out, “Master Baggins, I’m headed for the library. Will you join me?”

Bilbo extricates himself in the blink of an eye.

“Of course, I was on my way there myself,” he replies cheerfully. And if he walks a bit faster than normal, the elves won’t be able to tell. They do, however, look rather disappointed to have the object of their fascination leave.

Once they turn a corner, Bilbo takes a deep breath. “Thank you,” he says, “I thought they’d never let me escape.”

 

***

They are crossing a river, when Fili notices Bilbo struggling. The current makes it difficult to move, and their progress is slow. Master Baggins, far less sturdy built than the dwarves, is visibly fighting against being swept away.

Fili doesn’t hesitate – he changes directions until he can grasp the hobbit around the waist. Even water-logged, the hobbit is no heavy weight, and Fili can easily lift him over his shoulder. Bilbo makes a faint sound in protest.  
“Do stay still,” Fili tells him, “Unless you want us both carried away by the current.”

The struggles stop instantly, betraying just how much Bilbo had been fighting to stay on his feet. Fili feels rather unwell at the realization – why didn’t the hobbit say anything? Has Thorin’s dismissal discouraged him so?

“Well, thank you,” Bilbo’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “But I could have managed.”

“Nonsense,” Fili replies, “We’re dwarves. Believe me, we know how it feels to be shorter than everybody else – a man could have just waded through this without a second thought. Short people like us need to stick together.”

 

***

Once the group has descended from the carrock and set up camp, Bofur tugs Bilbo aside and sits him down next to the river.

“That was brave,” he says and he can’t help if he echoes Thorin, but his heart is still trembling when he recalls Bilbo throwing himself at that Orc, “Brave and foolish. Are you injured anywhere?”

He reaches for the remaining button of Bilbo’s waistcoat even before the hobbit can give an answer.

“I’m alright,” Bilbo replies, surprised, “I didn’t get cut…”

“Not just in the fight,” Bofur replies and attacks Bilbo’s shirt. The stains on it are, thankfully, only dirt. “Even before. Where were you when we got caught by the goblins?”

The hobbit flinches uncomfortably. “I fell,” he says, “At first they didn’t really notice me, though one did, and we fell… and when I woke up I was in a cavern and there was this odd creature,” he shudders, “But I got away. And then I saw you …”

Perhaps it is because Bofur comes from a family of miners, and more than one has perished in a fall, but he can’t help the sharp intake of breath the moment Bilbo says that.

“And you are really alright?” he asks, again.

“Only a little sore,” Bilbo says, wide-eyed at Bofur’s concern.

The dwarf makes him strip his shirt and hisses when he catches sight of the bruises on Bilbo’s back and chest. Though he can’t help the part of him that is relieved – because a fall like this could have caused worse damage.

“I suppose you’ll be rather sore for the next couple of days,” Bofur says, and finally manages to muster a smile.

Bilbo agrees, and if he was taken aback at Bofur’s worry or the way the dwarf sticks close to him during the next few days, he does not comment on it.

 

***

Balin watches for a time while Kili and Fili try their best to instruct their hobbit on the use of his letter opener. The sun shines down and warms the air; and it is a lovely day to spend it outside in Beorn’s garden.

It does, however, become obviously rather quickly that Fili and Kili are no instructors – but Balin is content to have them let their fun. Kili even encourages Bilbo to pick up his bow at one point – though they forget about that soon enough. The hobbit does not nearly have enough muscle to pull the string taut, and furthermore Kili is quite a bit taller than Bilbo.

Fili keeps introducing his own favorite moves with a sword – a lot of twisting and twirling, and both brothers seem to forget that Bilbo does barely even know how to hold it.

It must have been a nice life, where one could survive without weapons, Balin muses to himself. And perhaps their hobbit might be better off never having to use one, but after their close encounter with Azog, Balin will not trust their luck.

And Bilbo will need some idea of what to do with his letter-opener. Lest the next time he will not have the element of surprise working in his favor.

In the afternoon, he approaches Bilbo. “If you’d like to, I could give you some pointers on how to use your blade.”

Bilbo smiles. “I’d like that, yes.”

So Balin spends one afternoon showing Bilbo all the tricks he knows. Of how to block, and dodge and how to make use of small and quick. But he also makes certain to remind Bilbo that as long as any of the company is near, he is to leave the fighting to them and get himself to safety.

 

***

“Come closer, Master Hobbit,” Oin tells Bilbo.

With a suppressed sigh, the hobbit leans against the bars. Leans, rather than stands, as Oin notices. Behind him, the other dwarves shift – a guard could be back any moment, and Oin is not known for his silence.

But he has been silent long enough while Bilbo was sneaking news between them and their leader. He hasn’t much liked the hobbit’s pallor initially – the spiders left them all worse for wear, and he thinks Bilbo did not escape from that encounter without a scratch.

And prior to that they had no food.

“Have you slept?” Oin asks, rather harshly. With Bilbo’s face so close he can ascertain that the shadows under his eyes are no mere shadows, but do stem from a lack of rest.

“When I can,” Bilbo mutters.

Oin releases a sharp breath. “Give me your hand.”

Even without having a closer look, he can tell that the appendage stretched through the bars is much too thin and bony. The skin is dry, though – to Oin’s relief – not hot. Bilbo’s pulse is too fast and shallow.

“And when was the last time you ate something?” he inquires.

“This morning,” Bilbo answers.

“It wasn’t much, I suppose,” Oin conjectures.

Bilbo silently shakes his head. Of course, Oin tells himself, if larger volumes of food went missing, the elves would suspect an intruder. And their hobbit is doing his utmost to remain unnoticed and unseen.

“Well, since we need you in good shape, we’ll save you a share – the elves provide us with three meals a day; it won’t be hardship for everyone to sneak away a bite.”

Bilbo blinks. He tries to retract his arm, but Oin holds fast.

“I expect you back here tonight, Master Hobbit, for dinner,” Oin adds.

“Yes, certainly,” Bilbo answers, looking confused.

“Good. I’d tell you to go and sleep until then, but I understand that our current environment isn’t made for that,” Oin concludes, “But I expect you to sleep a lot once we’re out of here. Can’t have our burglar get sick.”

A small smile blossoms on Bilbo’s face then, and he thanks Oin for his concern before vanishing once more.

 

***

Gloin does not know how or when, but at some point their burglar worms his way into his heart as well. Bilbo is an engaging conversationalist, and actually willing to listen to Gloin tell of his wife and son. He even provides Gloin with some interesting insights on how family matters are handled in the Shire.

At one point Gloin even discovers that Bilbo is rather skilled at book keeping. Not that there is much to be done on their quest, when Goblins, orcs, elves, giant spiders and a number of other surprises constantly damage their equipment and cause more losses than any book keeping can sensibly trace. But Bilbo is good with numbers, and not bad at negotiations, and Gloin is glad of his company when the visit villages to barter.

In turn, he makes certain not to lose Bilbo in the crowds and stick close to the hobbit should anybody decide his small size makes him a good target. When Bilbo’s health – already strained beyond belief through Mirkwood – finally takes a turn for the worse during their stay in Laketown, Gloin does not mind employing his own coin to send for a healer.

 

***

“Master Baggins, you don’t want to go that way,” Nori says. It’s night in Laketown and on the end of the small, dark alley the lights of their house beckon.

“It’s a shortcut,” Bilbo replies, “I took it earlier, too.”

Nori knows he did. He also knows that Bilbo drew far more attention in the tavern he visited with Bofur and Kili than he noticed. And while most of those gazes were curious, some held other intentions. Neither the fine cloth Bilbo has been given to wear, nor his lithe statue and smooth face have remained unobserved.

When one of those men – oily, smelly and ill-kempt – had announced his intentions, Nori had forced himself to stay his own hand. His fingers had already closed around a dagger’s hilt.

“It’s not safe at this time of the night,” Nori tells him.

Bilbo blinks. “Even if we go together? I am not unarmed, you know.”

“I’d rather not risk it,” Nori replies. As intoxicated as those schemers in the tavern had been, he is confident they could take them on and win. But he’d rather avoid it – he’d also rather Bilbo never find out what had been said about him in that tavern.

“In that case, it’s a nice night for walking, I believe,” Bilbo agrees easily.

 

***

The weather turns cold when they leave Laketown and by now winter is not far. Neither is the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin can’t help the growing anxiousness within him. His company is equally restless, though there is more than one concern.

Nori does not like the wide plains. He has heard of robberies happening here, though Thorin is not afraid. They number fourteen and are all well-armed. More than a match for most bandits. Bombur remarking on the lake of edible wildlife is not yet a headache. They have ample rations from Laketown, and he supposes they ought to hold.

The moment the mountain is theirs again, they will have more than enough gold to buy whatever they desire.

Oin has commented on Bilbo’s health. The hobbit just recovered from the cold that had him abed for the better part of their stay in Laketown, and he has not fully regained his pallor or weight. Also, approaching the mountain is bound to make him uneasy.

When they settle down for the night, Thorin notices Bilbo curl up under his blanket, shivering. Even after he falls asleep, the movement does not stop – though neither of the dwarves is affected.

Thorin smiles, gets up and takes off his coat. He is wearing more than enough layers, and Bilbo deserves his rest – not only for the dragon that awaits him, but also for everything he has already done for the company.

So if Thorin’s coat provides a little more comfort, the King will gladly lend it out every night until they reach the mountain.

 

***

When the time arrives that Bilbo can protect his dwarves, he gathers all his courage and spirits away the Arkenstone. He knows what this will cost him, knows that his friends will not understand. But their lives, to him, are worth the price.

***

Dwalin turns around the corner and sees Bilbo fall into the dust.

Three dwarves, clad in armor bearing Dain’s seal, are laughing.

“Oh, look, the thief can’t sneak away?” one crows, “Who’d have thought that?”

“I wonder what he’s still doing here,” a second one wonders, “Wasn’t he banished on the pain of death?”

“Something like that,” number three agrees, “Let’s have a look at his face.”

There’s a knife in his hand, but Dwalin is on him before the kick he aimed at Bilbo’s stomach can connect. He feels the bone in the arm he’s holding on give away, and his vision is tinted red – he doesn’t hear the scream or how the knife clatters to the ground.

“That thief,” Dwalin hisses, “has saved your kingdom. You do not treat him this way!”

The three are quick to flee from Dwalin’s heated stare – and he lets them. While usually he would have demanded justice on the spot, he remembers their faces – Dain will hear of this, as will the company, and he doubts their fate will be kind – but Bilbo stirs.

The hobbit is pale, and grief has drawn deep lines into this face. Lines that mirror Dwalin’s own, although he thinks that fate is cruel to reward Bilbo’s courage like this. He may have been enraged himself when the Arkenstone was stolen – but now that the battle has been fought, he realizes that their hobbit had been right.

He tries to make his mien as kind as possible when he steps next to Bilbo.

“Are you alright?” he inquires and stretches out a hand.

Bilbo blinks. “I suppose so,” he answers, sounding hesitant, but eventually he allows Dwalin to pull him to his feet. The hobbit sways for a moment and Dwalin does not let go – he steps closer in order to catch Bilbo should he fall.

Dwalin takes the chance to watch him closely – he is relieved when he finds no visible injuries. Still, the clothes are torn and dirty – and didn’t anybody provide him with another set after the battle? – and all in all their hobbit does not look well.

Unsurprising, as everybody was concerned too with themselves to care for one small hobbit – that obviously was in too much grief to demand anything.

“Let’s visit my brother,” Dwalin tells Bilbo, and slings and arm around his shoulder. His brother is with Dain, and both know what they owe Bilbo – they’ll be able to arrange for new clothes, a place to rest and also the words necessary to cease the hostility Bilbo is at times greeted with.

And Dwalin will take care of everybody who is unwilling to be persuaded.

 

_Fin_


	10. Just a little hungry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbits eat more often than dwarves do - that is because they need more food. But neither the company nor Bilbo actually know this for a fact, which leads to Bilbo being too embarrassed to ask for more food, and the dwarves only finding out once Bilbo faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt + fill: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4063810#t4063810  
> Warnings: angst, starvation

After the embarrassment caused by his missing handkerchief, Bilbo does not ask to stop for Elevensies. His stomach grumbles in protest, but the noise is lost in the general din of chatter and hooves. By the time lunch rolls around, Bilbo is past feeling hungry, so he does not mind the small serving he receives. 

In the following days, he finds out that dwarves only have three meals per day. Whether it is a common practice or due to being on the road, Bilbo does not know – it makes, however, a nice conversation starter with Bombur, who is rather happy to chat about typical dwavish fare. On the downside, it makes both of them hungry, especially when they realize that half of the dishes mentioned can’t be prepared unless you have a truly well-stocked kitchen. 

The feeling of hunger flares up on days when they ride for a long time. Bilbo notes his trousers growing loose, though not more so than the last time he caught a nasty cold in winter. And he has become rather skilled in plucking apples or similar fruits from the trees they’re passing – a skill, the ponies seem to appreciate him for. 

Then they encounter the trolls, the ponies bolt and they run from the wargs. The path to Rivendell is not far, but Bilbo feels dizzy and stumbles more than once. Enough for Bofur to inquire whether he’s alright. 

Later, when they’re having dinner, Ori looks at him. “You like the green things?” he asks, apparently having noted how enthusiastically Bilbo dug in.

Bilbo shrugs. “They’re good,” he replies, “Go ahead and try” In honesty, Bilbo would have preferred a heartier fare as well – but the elves have used some nice spices on the salad, and Bilbo is glad to have some food at all. 

At least his stomach does not ache when he settles down to sleep that night.

***

Crossing the mountains is harsh. The first day Thorin marches them as far as he can; far past the point where Bilbo feels like collapsing. His feet hurt, his shoulders are sore and his stomach is so empty it doesn’t even ache anymore. When he rubs on where the straps of his pack are digging into his skin, his fingers come away stained with blood.

And even though the pack is heavy, their food stores dwindle to nothing faster than anybody anticipates. The rough terrain makes berries and edible plants much harder to find, and prey is elusive. Biting winds turn Bilbo’s fingers stiff and clumsy, and if he trembles at night, it’s in equal parts due to hunger and cold. 

The broth next morning is watery and cool. Thorin rarely allows them to light fires now – and while Bilbo understands that an empty belly is better than one pierced by an orcish blade, it does not make the gnawing pain any easier to bear. Hunger has become a constant companion – an ache in his stomach, and a feeling of hollowness that renders Bilbo detached. He doesn’t talk much when they walk, and Thorin is probably glad for it – his dislike of the hobbit appears to be growing with each day. With Gandalf gone, Bilbo feels lonely, and is almost thankful for the dizziness that regularly assaults him. It makes reality much less harsh and painful.

That evening, when they’ve almost reached the snowline, Bilbo notices he has reached the last notch in his belt, just as Thorin proclaims “No fire here,” and stalks off. It will be cold, watery broth tonight, too, and for a moment Bilbo’s eyes burn. He is painfully hungry – and what wouldn’t he give for his pantry, or just a small, warm loaf of bread. 

There’s some grumbling, but eventually everybody starts on their own tasks. Bilbo knows he is expected to go and look for some edible plants, but his head hurts too much, and he doesn’t think he had the strength to get to his feet. He wants to cry from the sheer exhaustion, when Fili and Kili flop down next to him. 

“Stay here,” Fili tells him, “We already looked around.”

“And there’s nothing even remotely green to be found here,” adds Kili.

Bilbo doesn’t reply that he does not much trust their judgment – they can barely tell a tree from a bush – but he’s too grateful for the warmth their bodies provide. He just wishes his own body would stop trembling. 

“And we’ve had enough of green things anyway,” says Kili, “What I wouldn’t give for nice bit of roast meat.”

“You can always go back down – you’ll find some game there,” Fili replies. 

Kili only grumbles and inches closer to Bilbo. 

“Well, I suppose we’ll find enough once we come down on the other side,” Fili says, “It shouldn’t be far now.”

He gestures out to where the sun is slowly disappearing. If Bilbo had not been hungry and dizzy, the view would have been spectacular. By now they find themselves above the clouds, looking out over woods and fields, and later Bilbo casts a glance back to the West – aglow in orange – wondering if the Shire’s green pastures might be visible. 

Then an icy breeze brushes past them. He shudders, and Fili leans down. “Are you alright, Master Baggins? You’re looking a bit pale.”

Kili hums in agreement. 

Bilbo can’t help feeling the sharp spike of disappointment run through him. Those dwarves are younger than him, and deal with the little food they have without blinking an eye – they even spare some concern for him – whereas he barely manages to walk a straight line. It makes him all the more disappointed not to voice the constant ache in his stomach – not when they must be feeling the same. 

“Exhaustion, I suppose,” he replies easily, “But I’ll be alright once I get some sleep.”

Fili does not look convinced, but is agreeable to letting their conversation stray to other topics. The next morning Bilbo wakes, for once warm, huddled between the two brothers. It does not console the gnawing pain of hunger, yet it makes him feel slightly better.

Until they happen onto the stone giants.

***

By the time they reach Beorn’s abode, the belt of his sword is the only thing that holds up Bilbo’s trousers. The dizziness rarely abates, and the hunger turned from a fierce ache into a bone-deep hollowness – but he has found that by now the taste of wild berries makes him sick.

However, there is the newfound respect of the dwarves to propel him forward, and this days Bilbo smiles easier when Gandalf asks him whether he’s alright. The pack is lighter, too, so nobody comments on his lack of strength. He enjoys the sun on his skin and the warmth of Beorn’s garden – just the food won’t sit well with him.

The first night he is overjoyed – and perhaps that is his mistake. Bilbo has overeaten more than once in his life, and knows this kind of sickness. He has not quite anticipated how violent it will be, and eventually Bofur is the one to carry him back inside, after he has turned his stomach inside out. 

Come morning he feels too weak to get up, until this summons Gandalf to his bedside. Instead of scolding him, the wizard frowns.

“You’ve lost a fair deal of weight,” he points out. 

Bilbo looks down on his bony fingers and shrugs. “Well, yes. I mean with all the running and walking – I think we all lost some pounds.”

“Then why are you here and not eating with the others?” the wizard asks.

Bilbo’s stomach cramps at the thought of food. He manages a dry grin. “I’m afraid I somewhat overdid it last night,” he tells Gandalf, “But I’ll join them the moment my stomach calms down.”

“If that is indeed the case I’ll leave you to rest,” Gandalf agrees, though he seems not entirely convinced. 

In the end, Bilbo has the right of it. By evening his stomach has calmed significantly. He takes care to only eat a light dinner, though Beorn and many of the dwarves urge him to eat more. It takes a couple of days, but he gets there – though his belt stays on last notch and his belly flat. Bilbo is rather glad his ribs are no longer starkly visible, and the dizziness abates. But he also knows that the Shire’s seven meals would be impossible to master for him right now.

He’s not that concerned, though, because nobody expects him to be a respectable hobbit right now, and their way ahead does not look likely to provide ample meals. (To say nothing of the dragon Bilbo is consciously not thinking about). 

When they leave Beorn’s, Bilbo is thin for a hobbit, but no longer pale. His cheeks have regained some color and he is comfortable with the three somewhat meager meals a day. 

Then they enter Mirkwood. Meager meals grow sparse, and there are neither berries nor game to be found. What is edible tastes like ash and provides even less nourishment. At times, Bilbo feels as if the forest is draining energy from them. The dizziness is quick to return, and the cramps soon follow. It grows bad enough that one day Oin has one look at his pallor and deems it necessary for him to be carried. 

The next day Bombur falls into the river and the dwarves need their strength to carry him – Bilbo stumbles along, his sight fading in and out, and he does not know if that is due to the forest or hunger. Fili wraps an arm around his shoulders when he can, and it helps. Bilbo is glad he needs not to unbutton his shirt – by now he has become afraid of what he may find. 

He does not know how he makes it out of Mirkwood. The strength he finds to face the spiders is born from desperation, and it takes him days hiding in Thranduil’s dungeon to recover from the aftermath. His hands won’t stop trembling, and there are times when he can’t even remember what being warm felt like. 

Then Bofur grasps his arms through the bars of the dwarf’s prison, and holds him tight for precious, few moments. Bilbo almost starts to cry, then, and Bofur refuses to let go of him until Bilbo has eaten the dwarf’s share of food. 

It’s almost too much. Bilbo has made do on scraps and water, and the richness of Bofur’s stew has his stomach in cramps all night long. At the lowest point he wonders if this is what death feels like – and then scolds himself. The dwarves need him to escape from here, and he is still not so weak he can’t get up. His hands may seem skeletal, but perhaps the dim light is at fault, too. 

Yet he can’t shake the feeling that something is fundamentally wrong with his body. 

So when he frees the dwarves from their barrels and Thorin turns to complain, Bilbo gives a weak smile and finally allows the darkness to claim him.

***

The first thing he grows aware of is warmth. He is resting on his back, and the mattress is as soft as the one on his own bed. Yet something is different – and the realization that this is not Bag End draws Bilbo from his deep slumber.

His eyes are strangely crusty, as if he’d been asleep for a very long time. His entire body feels off – and slowly the memories begin to return. And with it come hunger and weakness. Only, his stomach is not in pain right now, though he still is light-headed, and he doesn’t think he could even push back the covers if he wanted to. 

The bed is large, and the room is bright and spacious. Sunlight filters in through a window, and Bilbo wonders where he is. Perhaps Laketown – he recalls the name from the elves, though he has no idea how he got here.

“Bilbo!” a familiar voice exclaims, and Bilbo turns his head to see Bofur rising from a chair on the bed’s other side, “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Bilbo blinks, momentarily taken aback at the dwarf’s overjoyed reaction. “I’m… alright, I suppose?”

“Stay still for a moment,” Bofur tells him before Bilbo can even attempt to sit up, “I’ll fetch Oin and tell the others – they’ll be wanting to see you, you know. Were besides themselves with worry, we all were.”

And then he’s gone, calling loudly for Oin and Thorin and everybody to come up. 

“You gave us quite a scare,” he tells Bilbo when he returns, “Really, just to fall over like that – Thorin was right speechless, and if Dwalin hadn’t caught you, you’d probably have one more bruise to add to the collection.”

Bilbo can only blink as Bofur drops down next to the bed again. “At first we thought you’d hit your head, but then Oin told us off for not noticing how thin you’d gotten. He was really quite angry, and I don’t think …”

Whatever else Bofur intends to say is lost as the door is thrown open and Kili barges in, followed by Fili. 

“Bilbo!” the dark-haired dwarf exclaims, “You’re up! It’s so good to see you!”

“Kili, Fili,” Bilbo greets in response, “Do sit, pl…”

He needn’t have completed that sentence – Kili has enthusiastically dropped down on the mattress, making Bilbo bounce along with it. While Kili apologizes – trying to hold Bilbo steady – Fili more sedately takes a seat in one of the chairs. 

“Yes, thank you, I am quite alright,” Bilbo tells Kili who won’t stop babbling, “No, I have no broken bones and I will not perish the moment you let go of me, Master Dwarf, so if you don’t mind, would you please let me…”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Oin announces, as he marches in. Ori and Dori follow on his heels. A moment later, Dwalin comes in, too. 

Oin motions Kili aside, and takes his place on the bed. “Now, let me have a look at you,” he tells Bilbo while more dwarves keep piling into the room. Bilbo feels rather bemused, especially when each and everybody expresses delight at seeing him up. 

“How long have I been out?” he asks, while Oin is unbuttoning his shirt. It’s not very dignified, but Bilbo will not complain. 

“Almost three days,” Balin tells him, “The Master of Laketown did offer us a warm welcome, though.”

Bilbo isn’t certain if he regrets missing it. Then he recalls the sharp pang of hunger, and is rather glad that he did not spend more time conscious. Curiously, his stomach is not in pain now, though he does feel a bit hazy. 

“Some dizziness is to be expected,” Oin comments, “And don’t even try getting up – you won’t get as far as the door, I promise you that.”

Bilbo blinks. He recalls feeling unwell, but he was able to walk under his own power, right up until he passed out. 

“It’s been a close call,” Balin tells him, and immediately the room grows solemn, “And I think we owe you an apology, Master Baggins. We had no idea you were starving.”

Bilbo straightens up. “But I had as much food as everybody else,” he protests. 

“Not in the dungeon, you didn’t,” Bofur cuts in, while Balin replies: “Perhaps so, but it appears hobbits need more sustenance compared with dwarves. From your expression, I gather you did not know that either?”

And Bilbo can only mutely shake his head. He had known that dwarves had fewer meals than hobbits – not that they ate less in general. When they’d first come to Bag End, they’d certainly all eaten well – but after being on the road for so long, they had been bound to be hungry. 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Kili asks, interrupting Bilbo’s thoughts, “Why didn’t – you must have been so hungry.”

Kili’s words summon a ghost of pain back, and if Bilbo closes his eyes for a longer moment to gather himself, nobody comments. “I … I just thought… well, everybody had the same rations.”

“Because we’re all dwarves and know how much we need,” Fili supplies from where he quietly took up a position against the wall, “You can’t honestly have thought we’d only pack so little supplies, then?”

Bilbo does not know what to say. “… but you were hungry, too,” he mutters quietly. In hindsight it is easy to guess that while the dwarves had been grumbling about their small portions, none of them had experienced the same as Bilbo, then. 

“Step back, you’re crowding him,” Oin orders the tightening circle of dwarves surrounding the bed. They seem unwilling to obey, though when a late arrival clears his throat, they open a space. 

Thorin steps through, and Bilbo can’t read his face at that moment. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says, “As the leader of this company, I apologize for my failure. And seeing as it almost cost your life, I ask you to select a method of compensation according to your own wishes.”

“What?” Bilbo asks, and is himself surprised at how feeble his voice comes out, “I mean… that will not be necessary. It was all… a misunderstanding.”

Thorin’s gaze is heavy on Bilbo’s shoulders – he can feel how the exiled King traces the bony outline of his frame with his eyes. “Nevertheless, it brought you to grievous harm,” Thorin says, “And for that this company is guilty.”

Ere Bilbo can protest Oin leans forward. “Though, for the sake of everybody’s peace of mind, Master Hobbit, the next time you notice a misunderstanding like this occurring, we’d all thank you to notify of us earlier.”

Kili nods fiercely, and the concern in his eyes is mirrored by all the dwarves. It’s such a stark difference from the cold disdain or curiosity he was treated with at the beginning of the journey – now even Dwalin looks worried on his account. Warmth blossoms in Bilbo’s heart and he smiles. “I think I will.”

He can’t help that his fingers tremble, and he feels a bit faint. Bilbo may think it an emotional response – he has never been good with these things – but Oin’s expression darkens. 

“That is all very well,” he announces, “But for now our Master Hobbit needs some more rest. And Ori, if you’d be so kind, could you fetch some stew?”

***

Recovery takes longer than Bilbo anticipated. Oin is careful not let him have too much food – even after the point that Bilbo’s appetite returns. And he also makes certain Bilbo realizes the severity of his condition.

He’d not merely grown quite thin – as sometimes hobbits tend to do when they fall very sick – but gone beyond that. Oin takes time to explain how this reaches a point when the body starts to refuse even the little food that can be offered – and Bilbo recalls his upset stomach at Beorn’s, and has to wonder if that was really due to overeating. 

But he clearly remembers that horrible night in Thranduil’s dungeon that he spent soaked in cold sweat and with his stomach in cramps after Bofur let him have his meal. Now that reaction makes a frightening lot of sense – and Bilbo is glad he did not know, then.

Oin also remarks that he is surprised that Bilbo did not develop food cravings. With his head bowed deeply over a bowl of stew, Bilbo thinks that that is not exactly true – he recalls the pains of an empty stomach all too clearly. Though perhaps after a while his mind grew muddled enough to believe the scraps he scavenged in Thranduil’s home were enough. 

And once his appetite returns Bilbo rather begrudges Oin the strict direct he was prescribed.

His body is slow to recover and Oin hesitates to let him get up. When he finally moves around, one or more of the company always hovers nearby, ready to catch him should he stumble. The first time he joins the company at the Master’s house, the dwarves make certain he’s carried most of the way there and back. 

Bilbo would like to protest the excessive attention and overprotective attitudes – yet the backlash whenever he overexerts himself is vicious, and Bilbo won’t deny that it makes him feel warm. Those dreadful days spent in Mirkwood now seem like a bad dream. 

Eventually though, the days grow shorter and Bilbo knows they must move on.

***

“We made sure to pack enough food this time,” Kili promises the morning they are due to leave. Though in all honesty, Bilbo is not watching the bulk of their supplies but rather the water with trepidation.

“And if not, you’re welcome to have my share,” Fili supplies cheerfully as he carries another package past Bilbo.

The hobbit has been banned from helping – Oin hasn’t yet deemed him sufficiently recovered. 

“Perhaps you’d rather sit down?” Gloin asks from where he’s going through a checklist, “There’s space over here.”

“I’m quite alright, thank –“ Bilbo says, but then Oin straightens up.

“You should rest further, Master Hobbit,” the healer says, “There won’t be many opportunities later.”

Bilbo eyes the steps leading down to the boat. They do not look particularly stable. And while he is thinking how to best avoid getting on it as long as possible, a pair of large hands grips him around the waist. 

“Just over here, Master Baggins,” Dwalin mutters while Bilbo attempts to regain his bearings in this undignified position. Dwalin’s grip is firm, but careful, and he makes certain to sit Bilbo down on a pile of blankets. 

“You’re still hardly any heavier than those packs,” he tells Bilbo, “Listen to Oin.”

Bilbo wants to protest – he is certainly much better than he was when they first arrived in Laketown, but Dwalin has already turned his back. Under Oin’s watchful eye he can do little to help the dwarves. So instead he slowly begins to relax. And if he starts to tug one of the blankets closer after a while – well, the wind on the water is cold.

***

He must have dozed off, because when he wakes dusk is falling and they’re out on the water. A cool breeze caresses his face, but Bilbo is comfortably warm and the boat is rocking gently on the waves. Bits of quiet chatter pass by, and Bilbo slowly opens his eyes.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin inquires.

Bilbo nods in response. 

“Are you cold?” the dwarf asks. Again, Bilbo responds without speaking. Silence descends afterwards – it is comfortable, and for a while Bilbo closes his eyes again. Though this time, sleep does not pull him under.

Instead he grows aware of the unfamiliar, fur-lined fabric tickling his skin – much warmer than the thin blankets he fell asleep upon. Curiosity makes him open his eyes, and he is surprised to find he has been covered in a blue fur coat. Not Thorin’s though, this one is new and smaller. It also bears a pattern sewn into it with silver string, and the fabric feels incredibly soft under Bilbo fingers.

It takes him a moment to notice Thorin watching him with a gentle smile. 

“That one was made for you,” Thorin tells him, “It will grow colder, still. And I won’t see you hurt through sheer neglect again. Once was already one time too many.”

The material under Bilbo’s fingers feels all the more precious, then. So he directs his brightest smile at Thorin, and thanks him. 

Because this gesture means far more – Thorin may still not be able to protect him from all dangers, least of all the dragon – but this is Thorin’s way of saying that he will do his utmost to make certain no harm befalls Bilbo through any other way.

_Fin_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Five times one or more of the company had to cross dress to get out of a sticky situation, and one time it was just for the hell of it. 
> 
> Featuring: mama!bear!Gandalf, Kili and Dwalin looking good in a skirt, Thranduil likes his comfort and Bilbo apparently looks like a little girl. Bard did it for the children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally at: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9956885#t9956885
> 
> This is an attempt at writing something a bit crack-ish and light-hearted.

Sometimes the road leads them into towns, villages and small settlements. However, the company of Thorin Oakenshield quickly realized that grumpy dwarves were rarely given lodgings, sufficient answers or provided with services without paying for it in coin – and often overcharged, even then. 

The moment another innkeeper shut his door in Dwalin’s face, leaving them to face one more night spent in the rain on muddy ground Kili muttered “that wouldn’t have happened had it been a sweet lass come knocking.”

Some grumbled their agreement, and only Ori could be heard muttering how he liked Mister Dwalin’s smile well enough, thank you very much. 

“Though you have to admit, he wasn’t exactly smiling,” Fili protested. 

Neither, then, had any idea of just how much inspiration their words had provided for another member of their company.

***

The first to pull the trick is Gandalf. As he is rather fond of his beard and much too tall for a dwarf, he uses his magic to tint his robes a bit darker, make their fabric look more flowing and add in some flowery patterns. Then he hides most of his face behind a thick veil of the same fabric – this, he informs them, is considered quite fashionable down south. Not to mention that it hides his beard. Balin nods in agreement, because he recalls the women of Dale similarly hiding their hair and faces when winters grew harsh.

They are all rather skeptical, because underneath the bulk of robes Gandalf does not appear particularly female – the added layers merely make him appear round. Before Bilbo can ask any uncomfortable questions regarding the liberal use of magic (what wizard won’t make the rain stop, but doesn’t hesitate to elongate his eyelashes? Bilbo is quite certain they were not that long or dark before), Gandalf sashays into the Inn. 

At first, the innkeeper is welcoming and curios. They have little contact with the outside world, and Gandalf’s tales are enchanting. Then the wizard introduces his companions, and they all can firmly watch the prices skyrocket. 

Thorin growling at the innkeeper does not help. Kili’s and Fili’s sweet smiles fail, too. Ori’s polite request falls on deaf ears and even Dwalin’s flexing muscles leave the innkeeper not very impressed at all. They’re about to give up – it’s dry outside, and who needs a soft bed anyway? Kili even mutters, sotto voce – which of course everybody hears – “Why don’t we leave, Gandalf---ina. The grass isn’t too bad…” – when Gandalf steps forward.

(If he has heard the moniker they do not know. But they later ensure it is not forgotten). 

And, in a combination of his usual magic and a nicely displayed fit of matronly rage bullies the innkeeper into providing the rooms for free. Once he is done, about everybody in the inn is willing to obey Gandalf without even daring to breathe a word of protest. 

Once they’re in their rooms, Kili shudders. “That was scary,” he tells his brother, “For a moment he reminded me of mother.”

Fili nods in wordless agreement.

***

The next occasion arises when they arrive at a fork in the road that nobody can recall. There’s a tavern next to it, so they’ll be able to ask for directions – though, as it turns out, the occupants are either untrustworthy or unwilling to share their knowledge for free.

“We could send Dwalin,” Fili suggests. 

Gandalf shakes his head. “No, those men won’t be intimidated.”

He knows better than to add “--- by somebody or your size”. Dwalin can be fairly intimidating, it’s just that compared to most men he still is a dwarf. 

“Couldn’t you pull your Gandalfina-trick?” Kili inquires. There’s some chortling at the term, and Gandalf’s brow furrows. Then his eyes gain a strange gleam.

“No, I think those men would be more receptive if a younger lass went in and asked nicely,” he replies, “Come to think of it, Master Dwarf, I think you just fit the requirements.”

“But I’m not…” Kili squeaks, even as his brother begins laughing. 

In the end the company is altogether too gleeful in providing tips for Kili’s task. Gandalf helpfully alters his clothes a little – his coat becomes long and it at least looks as if he’s wearing a skirt underneath. Balin very calmly explains that his hairstyle needs to change – “Not that your usual style is bad for a lass, I just think this might need something special” – and Kili can’t help feeling mortified. (And if he vows that once this is done he’ll ask Thorin to teach him how to braid his hair properly – and remember this time around). 

He’s glad he’s allowed to keep his trousers under coat-turned-dress. 

“What about the beard?” somebody asks, and Kili resolves to shoot the first one to suggest shaving it off. Luckily, nobody does. Instead, “I think some ladies use wax for make-up. At least I read that somewhere. I think that ought to thick enough to cover it, shouldn’t it?” is suggested. 

Kili doesn’t know if he wants to kiss or to kill Ori. (Nobody would ever tell Ori he has so short a beard that it can be hidden under some make-up, that lucky sod). His own brother hums cheerfully throughout the entire process – Kili swears he will see Fili suffering this indignity once the time comes, and their hobbit turns up with flowers. 

To braid into his hair, he says with a blush. 

Kili wonders if they shouldn’t have randomly picked a path and followed it. This is far too much trouble. The only one who doesn’t seem to enjoy this is Thorin, but then Kili can’t quite remember when he last saw his uncle laugh. (Or giggle the way Ori is desperately attempting not to). 

Eventually Dwalin gives him a cheerful pat on the back. “You go ahead and show them!” 

And to this day Kili will feel rather traumatized at the reaction he garnered inside. From the moment he entered, eyes were on him – and if he hadn’t opted to display the knife strapped to his side, there would have been hands, too. 

Getting the information takes some time, especially since about everybody seems to want to buy him a drink, talk to him and either ask the most inane questions (“How are you so small?”) or want to tell him all about their lives (“I’m from a small village on the border of Rohan – you probably never heard of it.”)

Once he has posed his question, there are several enthusiastic offers to accompany him. Kili smiles sweetly, declines and mentions her family waiting outside. The few that dare to follow him out of the door are greeted by the combined power of Thorin’s and Dwalin’s frowns. Supplemented by numerous sharp weapons. 

Kili is only too happy to leave the place behind, and thankfully, Gandalf quickly returns his clothes to their proper shape. He is still picking out petals from his hair two hours later. 

Fili grins at him. “That went so well, I think we should employ that trick more often,” he tells his brother.

“Yeah, but you were the skirt next time,” Kili tells him with a glare. 

“Oh no, I most certainly don’t have the figure to pull it off,” Fili replies, “And you know, I have a beard. They’d never be fooled if it was me.”

“I hate you,” Kili mutters and gives his pony the spurs. Hopefully it’ll kick up some mud to land on his smug prat of a brother.

***

The only time they come across other dwarves is when they descend from the Misty Mountains. There is a small settlement, one that does not particularly like dealing with strangers, not even other dwarves. They know they need not enter, but crossing the mountains has left them worse for wear and they need to barter for supplies.

“They’ll barter with a female, probably,” Balin suggests after a few moments.

“It must be somebody who knows how to barter, though,” Nori adds. He has been in contact with this particular group before, but doesn’t much like them. It is probably mutual, as he is rather insistent not to go – “unless you like to sprint. They are quite good at giving chase.” 

“Then we sent in somebody in disguise,” Bofur says, “It has worked rather well until now, hasn’t it?”

All eyes inevitably wander to Kili, who is already backing up, shaking his head. Unexpectedly, Nori comes to his aid. “No, it ought to be somebody … not so young.”

What he doesn’t say is that Kili’s cheerful demeanor will probably make him stick out like a sore thumb. And female or not, that particular group of dwarves generally dislikes people who are different. Even if they’re just young and hopeful.

Eventually Dwalin snorts. “I’ll do it,” he announces.

There is a short moment of absolute silence. Even the woodland animals appear to be in shock. Then the tea Dori was pouring spills over and Bilbo starts coughing. 

Bofur leans over with a contemplative expression. “I think that will work,” he declares, where even Thorin seems slightly skeptical, “Though I think Gandalf needs to help us out once more.”

The result is, at least to Bilbo, not immediately recognizable as female, though Ori stares in awe, Nori whistles appreciatively and Gloin comments sotto voce to Oin, “Lovely, but not as lovely as my wife.”

Still, it brings a blush of red to Dwalin’s cheeks. 

Thus Dwalin marches off, with his trousers turned into a skirt (Gandalf seems to have become very proficient at this type of magic), a wig made from warg hair on his head, and his axes strapped to his back. Bilbo is not certain if he’s meant to be charming or intimidating – but it works. 

After three hours Dwalin returns with far more supplies than the coin he took ought to have bought. And after they have emptied some of the beer they received, he also recounts how he was proposed by no less than five dwarves.

It’s not a bad quota, concerning the settlement counts barely more than sixty inhabitants.

***

Bilbo knows elvish fashion is different from what he is used to, and he has seen Lord Elrond in long robes. Still, Thranduil’s robes – when he first catches a glimpse of him – strike him as somewhat different.

It is nothing he thinks much on; not until he hears one of the elf captains – the female one Bilbo decided he does not like particularly much – ask another. 

“Legolas, was your father wearing a dress?” she stresses it as if scandalized. She does not have much of the poise the rest of the elves have, though Bilbo finds himself agreeing with her judgment. 

The cut of Thranduil’s robe seemed a bit feminine, and where Elrond’s robes often opened to display trousers worn underneath, there’s no indication of this where Thranduil is concerned. And then Bilbo wants to smack himself for even thinking about what Thranduil could be wearing (or nor wearing) under his robe – honestly, he has much more serious concerns!

But unless those two elves move, he is stuck in his corner.

“Yes, but you know he does that often – why does it upset you so much?” Legolas – blond as his father – replies, “It’s comfortable. You should try it sometime.” 

“Why should …?” she sputters, and Bilbo didn’t really know that elves could do that, “It’s not proper. What should the other think – do you even know he met with Thorin Oakenshield today? Wearing a dress?!”

Legolas shrugs. “I doubt Thorin Oakenshield even realized it was a dress.”

Thorin may have not realized it, but Bilbo makes sure to tell him. Even though the sudden explosion of laughter has the guards come running.

***

Bilbo’s curls have grown a good deal when they finally reach Laketown. And he’s too grateful to check what clothes he is provided with, until he steps out of the bath and discovers that he has been given a frilly dress.

The internal debate makes him late for dinner, but as the choice is to go naked or go hungry, he reluctantly pulls it over his head.

He feels ridiculous, and, naturally, the dining room is completely crowded the moment he steps in. There’s the company and dozens of Laketown’s well-to-do citizens. Bilbo wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him.

Already it’s too late to back away. Dwalin is staring at him – only moments until the rest of the company sees him. 

He does not expect one of the well-to-do ladies of Laketown to be faster. 

“Oh dear, how cute you are, darling,” she says and is on her feet even before Kili and Fili can start laughing. Bilbo sees how Bofur’s chin drops, before he’s mercilessly turned around to the human woman crouching in front of him.

“Such lovely hair, but it really needs a trim – how about we add some braids? I think that would look lovely on you,” she coos, and Bilbo realizes she must think him a child. 

“Would that be alright?” the woman asks the dwarves, while Bilbo is still reeling in shock. 

The company’s faces express a myriad of emotions, all situated somewhere between bewilderment and amusement. 

“Sure,” Kili replies with a wide grin, “Go ahead. Little Bilba’s just shy.”

Fili nods enthusiastically, and can’t quite hide the fact that he is giggling. Thorin appears frozen and Dwalin’s mouth is twitching oddly. Bilbo realizes they will never let him live this down (honestly, he hasn’t paid much attention to how the dress looked, but now he grows aware of just how frilly it is) and wishes for Smaug to descend upon them all.

The dragon does not come, so he is dragged away to a fate that, arguably, is much more terrible. At least this is what Bilbo thinks when he eventually sees himself in a mirror and finds that there are now gemstones and ribbons in his hair, and the entire get-up makes him look like an oversized doll. 

Naturally, that is the night the company waits up for his return.

***

“Errr,” Bard grows as red as the dress he is wearing when the dwarves encounter him in a yet-to-be reconstructed quarter of Dale. The remains of battle have been cleaned up, and with Laketown majorly destroyed, many residence have chosen to relocate.

As the childish laughter nearby proves. 

“It looks quite fetching,” Kili says and can’t help giggling, though Fili is quick to elbow him. 

“My lovely brother does look rather good in a dress himself,” Fili says in an effort not to affront Dale’s future king, no matter how he is dressed concurrently. After all, Thranduil does wear dresses too. So maybe Thorin will have to adjust in the future, if this is to be common practice among the rulers of this area.

“Err, that is, uhm, I, thank you?” Bard grimaces, “I mean, they needed a princess.”

He gestures to the group of five children fighting an imaginary dragon further down the road. 

“Of course,” Bilbo is quick to reply, “That is very kind of you.”

“It’s what everybody would have done,” Bard quickly deflects. Then his eyes gain a certain glint. “In fact, I believe the boys mentioned that there are five of them and only one princess – they thought that a bit unfair.”

“I wouldn’t mind, but there seems to be only one dress?” Fili replies. Next to him Kili and Bilbo hold their breath – and when Bard’s face breaks into a grin, Kili kicks his brother’s ankle.

“Oh no, there are many more,” Bard tells them, “In every size.”

Bilbo flinches, and Kili hisses “Should have told him we were busy” at his brother. 

But when five children come running at Bard’s call and stare at the three with wide-excited eyes, saying no becomes impossible. Even if one of the boys points out: “they even have long hair. Like real princesses.”

“But princesses don’t have beards,” another says.

“Dwarven princesses do,” Bard explains to them, and the boys’ eyes grow even rounder. 

It turns out the quarter they are in is not nearly as remote as they thought. Or rather popular that day, because moments after the small group from Erebor has more or less reluctantly shrugged on some frilly dresses rescued from the trunks of an empty mansion, two elves wander in.

“That is wonderful!” Legolas cheerfully says when he is told what is happening. He directs his words mostly at the children, and not so much at the four scowling adults with ribbons in their hair.

“We’re still one princess short,” one of the boys says, “And maybe one of you could be the dragon?”

***

When Thorin comes in search of them some hours later, he is quite surprised to find one King, his nephews, one hobbit and two elves frolicking among the ruins of an old mansion with some children. In dresses. That is, his nephews are wearing dresses. And Bard. And the elf.  
Not the boys; and neither does the female-elf wear one. She, however, apparently is pretending to be a dragon.

Next to him, Dwalin stifles his laughter, and Thorin catches sight of an amused smile on Balin’s face. 

“I suppose they won’t join us for dinner,” Balin says. 

Thorin shrugs. “I think Erebor can spare its princesses a little longer.”

_Fin_


	12. Unfinished Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Company doesn't realize it, but the reason Bilbo can turn invisible at will is actually because he died in Gollum's cave.  
> But he continues on to finish the journey anyways, because a Hobbit can't leave unfinished business.
> 
> Thus beware of: Character Death, Violence and Angst. Also, this is 7k of words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original Prompt + Post: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=18040350#t18040350

 Bilbo does not realize it at first. One moment he is stuck in a too narrow passage with an odd, dangerous creature closing in, wielding a sharp rock as a weapon. Of course, Bilbo’s sword is stuck on the wrong side, and his buttons get in the way. The creature pounces with an unholy shriek –

And then he is on the other side, together with Gollum who looks around in confusion. Bilbo, shaken to the core, remains where he lies, while Gollum mutters to himself, and drops that glistening rock. “Thiefs! We will find you!” he exclaims, and bounds off again.

Bilbo forces himself to his feet – he does not know why Gollum failed to see him, but he will not question his luck. Everything feels too wrong to figure anything out – he needs a quiet moment to settle his thoughts, but there is no reprieve. Abruptly there are familiar voices shouting, the sound of running boots – and Bilbo rushes after the company.

Like Gollum, they do not see him at first. Only when Bilbo clears his throat and speaks up his presence is noticed – with some surprise and relief. Thorin remains skeptical, demanding to know how Bilbo escaped, and the hobbit can only shrug.

He does not quite understand it either. But perhaps his memory is faulty?

“What does it matter?” Gandalf comments in an attempt to placate the growing tension, though there is an odd expression on his face. Lucky for Bilbo, though, Thorin is mostly interested in his reasons – and Bilbo does not hesitate to state those.

“You do not have one. A home. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

And that is his promise. Come what may, he will see it done – and that softens the hollow feeling in his chest a little.

 

***

 

To his own astonishment, Bilbo walks out of the confrontation with Azog with nary a bruise and only two hardly-bleeding cuts. He is too surprised at his own daring to question why the rather deep cut on his arm does not bleed; and too thankful for the reprieve after to think much upon his confrontation with Gollum.

Thorin’s hug provides him with inner warmth that carries through the night. The next morning is the first that Bilbo wakes without feeling dead tired still – though he remains rather exhausted and hollowed-out.

Gandalf proclaims they will visit an acquaintance of his, and with the gentling landscape the general mood rises. Birds chirp, and the rocky path turns into green grass. The landscape is lush, and the nightmare of the Misty Mountains remains as the icy, beautiful backdrop against small woods and wide grasslands.

The animals turn enormous, and for the first time Bilbo thinks he may enjoy the wild. It certainly helps, that the overgrown insects keep their distance. Others are not so lucky, and by noon it is nearly a miracle none has been stung one of the oversized bees.

Once they arrive, Beorn stares down Gandalf. “I will not house any of Morgoth’s creation.”

His stance is oddly tense, almost as if he was afraid. Bilbo is surprised, because Beorn is twice the size of Gandalf, and even considering the wizard’s magic, he would be more than a fair opponent. However, Beorn took one look at Bilbo and immediately stiffened.

“I would not bring one of those to your doorstep,” Gandalf replies, “Though there may be some chasing us. Our company –“

“Your company? Do you mean you and your companion?”

“Indeed. Myself and Master Baggins, a hobbit from the Shire,” and in small increments Gandalf spins their tale. It is a nice one, Bilbo thinks, and one he might want to write down later. Somehow, at this thought, he grows dizzy.

“Are you alright?” Bofur asks quietly, but not quietly enough. Abruptly, all eyes turn to him and – surprisingly without blushing – Bilbo waves the concern aside. “It’s nothing a bit of food won’t fix.”

They do have a feast and the next couple of days are bliss.

 

***

 

On one of the early days, Beorn joins Bilbo as he meanders through the gardens. Around them, wildflowers bloom in dozens of colors, at least three times as large as Bilbo has ever seen. Some petals are as large as his hand.

Bees hum and birds chirp, but leave the visitors alone.

“It has been long since I have heard of the Shire,” Beorn comments.

Bilbo laughs. “Most people don’t ever hear of it. In fact, I don’t believe the dwarves were even conscious of the place before they passed through.”

“And you just joined them?” Beorn asks.

“Gandalf had a hand in it,” Bilbo admits, and then he softens, “But I’m glad I did. I didn’t understand it then, and I think I’m only beginning to understand it now – what a home actually means.”

Beorn looks at him contemplatively. It might be the light, but Bilbo also thinks he looks sad, though he has no idea why.

“So this is your resolution, then?” Beorn asks, “Will you see that quest through, even though it is not your own home?”

Bilbo smiles. It’s a bit lopsided, because he knows that his reasoning is not entirely straight, and most other hobbits would run screaming. But in his heart he feels that this is right.

“Quite so.”

 

***

 

Beorn is truly sad to see them go. If he hugs Bilbo longer than the others, well, nobody sees it fit to comment. Nor does the parting glare Beorn directs at Gandalf make much sense, but the company is well-rested and anxious to be on their way.

Their bellies are filled, though to his own surprise Bilbo has remained on the lean side. Still, it’s easy going until they reach Mirkwood, and when the dwarves begin to complain of hunger, Bilbo has to admit that the impenetrable darkness of the forest disturbs him more.

Also, that odd, hollow feeling returns in force. Bilbo’s gut informs him that something is wrong, terribly wrong, but he can’t put a finger on it. And he won’t bother the others, because the forest is already bad enough. Perhaps this and hunger are causing his own paranoia.

 

***

 

Realization comes late and dramatically.

One day when sneaking through Thranduil’s dungeons he slips. He is not fast enough, fails to duck away in time – and even if the elves can’t see him, their ears are sharp, and their blades strike true.

“I’ve got it!” one of the elvish guards exclaims, as a soft gasp falls from Bilbo’s lips. The dwarves roar from their prison, but all Bilbo can stare at is the blade piercing through his chest. He feels wrong, strange, uncomfortable – but thankfully, there is no pain.

The elf tugs at the blade, there’s a scream of “Bilbo!”, and the hobbit stumbles backwards. The blade slides smoothly from his chest, and he falls to his knees.

“Where is it?” the other elf asks, “It fell off!”

“Can’t have gotten far, though,” the guard comments, looking at the reddish liquid coating the blade.

Bilbo feels dizzy, pressing a hand to his chest where he knows the cut is. When elvish hands blindly reach out for him, he manages to scramble away on unsteady feet.

He keeps going until he finds the first quiet corner. With a sigh, Bilbo sinks down, thinking that this will be the end. This is where he will die – alone in a strange place with no friends at his side. With dread coiling in his stomach, he removes his hand from the injury.

And finds only very little blood coating it.

But the sword stabbed deeply. It went right through his body. So how…

And suddenly it all makes sense. How Gollum, the spiders and the elves could not see him. The strange looks Beorn gave him. The hollow feeling, how he did not gain weight, how his injuries don’t bleed and how his chest is cold and still.

Why Beorn asked him if restoring their home to the dwarves was his desire.

He must have known.

Bilbo does not know what he feels, but it is gut-wrenching. The stab wound will not kill him – because he is already dead. Has been for a while. Which is why the animals avoided him, why Beorn first saw him as a wraith – a dead body, moving and talking, and Bilbo never realized.

Even though he does know the legends.

 

***

 

Being dead does not make drowning any more comfortable. Bilbo coughs and sputters when the dwarves drag him to the shore, his lungs ache fiercely, and the trip to Laketown is a blur. He feels weak then, and is content to let the dwarves fuss over him.

The stay at Laketown also gives him a chance to gather his thoughts.

Dead things can’t linger forever, unless they are wraiths, tied to something with black magic. He is glad that he does not turn invisible to the dwarves, either. And the men of Laketown do not recognize him for what he is.

Oin, however, is rather concerned about an old head-injury he discovers underneath Bilbo’s curls. It does not bleed, but neither does it seem to be healing. And because he only sees the cut the blade left on Bilbo’s chest – and not also the exit wound on his back – he assumes that it was shallow.

Bilbo wonders if he should tell them.

Now, with the Lonely Mountain so close, he can feel himself fading. He does not dare turn invisible, for he may not be able to undo it any longer.

But his quest is not yet fulfilled, and he will see it done.

In the meantime, though, he pens letters to the Shire. He will not return to Bag End, and the thought causes his heart to ache. Along the oversized furniture of men, he misses his home more than ever.

When they leave, Bilbo stands for a long time, looking back. The lake glitters enticingly and even the borders of Mirkwood shine in rich shades of green. Beyond tower the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains, and somewhere beyond them lie the Shire’s rolling hills.

“Don’t look so glum, Master Hobbit,” Gloin tells him cheerfully, “Perhaps the beast has perished, already.”

Bilbo musters a weak smile. The dragon does not particularly scare him, now.

“And then you’ll be home to your garden and armchair, sooner than you expect,” Gloin adds.

No, I won’t, Bilbo thinks.

“But of course you’re welcome to stay for a while,” Fili chirps in, and Kili adds, “Actually, we hope you’ll stay for a bit.”

It is hard to regret his decision to come when thirteen dwarves cheerfully invite him to stay. It may have cost him his life, but he feels warmer inside than he has for a long, long time.

 

***

 

Miscalculation has Bilbo staring up – petrified – into the glowing, golden eyes of Smaug. “What, then,” the dragon hisses, and the steam from his nostrils is hot, “are you?”

“I am riddle-winner, barrel-rider. I am the lucky number,” Bilbo says calmly, though his knees are weak, “I am the one you cannot kill for I am already dead.”

Smaug roars. “But I can destroy your body, foul creature. I can rip off your legs, I can tear apart your body, and I can burn you until nothing remains.”

“You can,” Bilbo replies, his voice even though he is terrified, “But you need to find me first.”

And with that he lets his body disappear from view.

The fading feels more complete than before, and Bilbo fears the moment he cannot undo this state. But he must endure – for now – and move as quickly and lightly as possible. Smaug strikes with his claws and his tails, spits fire and roars so that the mounds of gold shift and tumble.

He’s almost back to the passage when Smaug’s furor dies down.

“I do smell them, dead one,” the dragon states and sounds – all of a sudden- horrifyingly calm about it, “You have no smell, wraith that you are, but I smell the dwarves. On you, and, I think, from that corner, too. They must be waiting outside – for their very own wraith to return.”

Bilbo freezes.

“Tell me, dead one, did they recall you from your eternal sleep? Did they wake you so you could do their bidding?” Smaug continues, and his voice cuts straight through Bilbo’s being, “Because it is certainly lucky to have one among your company that is already dead.”

Bilbo knows better than to rise to the taunt. Yet he can’t help himself. “It is a far older magic that has brought me here, o Smaug the terrible,” he says, “A magic that, as you fail to understand it, works to your end.”

“Then we shall see, dead one,” Smaug hisses, “Whether your ancient magic will also bring back your dwarves.”

 

***

 

The dwarves survive. Most of Laketown’s inhabitants and a number of particularly unlucky elves do not.

Neither does Smaug, but as the fires of Laketown brighten the night sky Bilbo wonders at the price. In Erebor’s treasury, the dwarves rejoice – Bilbo feels distanced, unlike them. A part of it looks at the distant catastrophe of Laketown and thinks that this cannot be called victory.

Another part waits for the magic to fade out.

The mountain has been reclaimed. His contract fulfilled – he may not be happy, but the company is alive and home (even though it does not feel like it), and he waits for a sudden blow of pain, or oblivion to abruptly swallow him.

Nothing does happen. He continues to feel hollow and exhausted, but death does not come for him.

Instead, Bofur finds him. “’tis not a night to sit out here on your own and be glum,” Bofur tells him, “Come in, there are some old wine barrels that survived the dragon.”

 

***

 

Morning brings the revelation that the mountain is not truly won. Bard tries to reason, and Thranduil glares coldly. Thorin is deaf to both.

The glint of obsession lightening his eyes turns Bilbo’s stomach.

His part in this, he realizes with a heavy heart, is not yet over. And when, hours later, he finds the Arkenstone, he wonders at the designs fate has upon him.

All he wanted was to see his dwarves restored to their home, hale and happy. Their home he may have returned to them, but currently they are not hale. And neither will they be happy once he has played this final part.

Bilbo wishes he could at least be angry at Gandalf. For bringing him out on an adventure that first took his life and will now see him depart from this world cut off from everybody he ever called a friend. But he can’t – not when does not regret running out of his door, does not regret a moment spend among the company.

Not when this quest means enough for him to invoke that ancient hobbitish magic that now is straining to let him see the quest’s fulfillment.

 

***

 

The elves seem to sense something off about him. Bilbo feels the suspicious glances cast his way, senses their hostility. He won't blame them for thinking him a wraith for now, pale and thin and grieved, he must look the part.

Bard greets him like an old friend, which is a small blessing. Thranduil remains seated, though his hand closes around a dagger under his robe.

"Who is that?" he inquires and nods towards Bilbo.

Bard raises an eyebrow. "That is Master Baggins, a hobbit in the employ of Thorin Oakenshield's company."

"There was no hobbit when they passed through my lands," Thranduil replies sharply, and Bilbo makes certain not to move. Lest Thranduil try and stab him - who knows if not an ancient elvish blade may undo those last strands of magic that hold him together.

Bilbo clears his throat. "I was there, even though you did not see me."

Thranduil remains tense. "I have never heard hobbits could do that."

Bilbo swallows. "No, that is something only I can do."

Thranduil wants to ask something else, but the flap of their tent is drawn back and Gandalf enters.

"Bilbo," he exclaims, "Not that I am not glad to see you, but what are you doing here?"

And with a heavy heart the hobbit suggests the bargain.

Not that it needs much convincing. Bard sees reason quickly, and Thranduil follows soon. But when Bilbo rises up to return to the mountain, both leaders protest.

"You'll be safer here," Bard says, "Thorin will not like the deal. I would not see any harm come to you."

Bilbo smiles weakly. "I doubt I will come to harm," he replies - Thorin cannot kill one who is already dead.

Thranduil purses his lips. "Perhaps not in body, but in mind. I, too, would counsel you to remain here."

Both Bard and Gandalf look curious. Bilbo shrugs uneasily. "I would rather see this through."

Understanding dawns in Thranduil's eyes. "This is your purpose, then?"

Bilbo nods. And abruptly, Gandalf's eyes widen and he steps forward, grasping Bilbo by the shoulders. "Bilbo!"

The wizard's eyes search his, pleading for that dark suspicion to be untrue. Bilbo shakes his head in response and brushes aside the hair.

Underneath the wound remains raw, open and bloodless.

Gandalf sucks in a shape breath. "When?"

"The caverns under the Misty Mountains," Bilbo replies, "Though I did not realize it until we were deep into Mirkwood."

Nobody needs to know that it took an elvish blade stuck through his chest for him to realize.

Gandalf holds him tighter. "I'm so sorry," the wizard whispers, voice choked, "I'm sorry."

"Excuse me," Bard interrupts, "But I don't understand what is going on here."

Thranduil straightens, while Gandalf makes no move to let Bilbo go. "A long time ago I heard a rumor. Or rather a myth, perhaps," Thranduil tells, "Of a people from the distant west that may linger after death to see a duty fulfilled, a wish realized or their affairs settled. It was no dark magic allowing it, no evil power raising wraiths - but a favor granted to those that lived ever in peace and died with a kindness in their hearts."

Bard blinks. The picture is clearly coming together in his mind - but he does not seem to believe it yet.

"I thought it just a myth until today," Thranduil finishes, "But apparently it is not."

Bilbo clears his throat. "It is awfully rare, though."

"Are you saying, Master Baggins, that you are...." Bard pales.

"I am dead, Master Bowman," Bilbo replies evenly. He has gotten used to the idea, has made his peace, while his companions struggle.

"Then how...?"

"As King Thranduil has said, a bit of ancient magic allows some of us to linger until we have completed our business. At least, as long as the body remains hale," Bilbo explains. He recalls Smaug’s threats all too clearly.

"And your ... Wish was to reclaim Erebor?" Bard inquires.

There is an unspoken "why then do you still linger now that the dragon is dead" in the air. Bilbo purses his lips. "My wish was to help the dwarves reclaim their home. While I have to admit I do not understand this magic, I believe my wish will only be fulfilled once Thorin is legitimately crowned king under the mountain."

"Then if he is not?" Bard asks.

"Then at some point the magic would fade," Bilbo answers, "In fact it already is."

Bard looks pained, and Gandalf's fingers tighten around Bilbo's shoulders. The bowman turns to Thranduil. "Is there any way to undo this? Would perhaps one of your kin from Lothlorien or Rivendell know? I would send our fastest rider..."

Thranduil shakes his head. And Bilbo reaches out - if he was taller he would have given Bard a pat on the shoulder - as it is, he barely reaches upper arm.

"There is no undoing this," Bilbo gently tells him, "I am already dead, and all I wish is to use this chance as I am supposed to - by seeing Erebor reclaimed."

"Then I will help you in whichever way I can," Bard vows.

 

***

 

When Thorin's hands close around Bilbo's throat, his heart is what hurts the fiercest. Thorin shakes him, dangling his body over the wall, roaring in rage.

"Then do so," Bilbo wants to tell him, "Throw me down."

Perhaps it will break his body so that it mirrors his shattered heart.

Gandalf's intervention saves him. The wizard looks worried, and if Bilbo did not know better, he would have thought to have seen an instance of panic on his face. Yet once his feet touch the ground, Gandalf is collected as he enfolds the hobbit in his arms and spirits him away.

"Will you be alright?" Gandalf asks, quietly so that Bard who rides nearby won't overhear.

"I think so," Bilbo replies, "It's not been fulfilled yet."

The dwarves may sit in their home, but it is not yet completely theirs. Bilbo does not know why, though the magic holds. He does not know if he should be grateful for it - because had the magic faded earlier, he would not have experienced this.

Then again, if not for that desperate trade Thorin and his company might now be slaughtered by the joined forces of Laketown and the Greenwood.

 

***

 

Bilbo is sitting with Thranduil, Bard and Gandalf – all oddly concerned for his well-being –, when the messenger arrives. An army of orcs and goblins, he announces, they will be there by nightfall. Thranduil nods, coolly, and gives orders to prepare. Bard seems not as calm – how shall they deal with this new foe? – but he imitates the elves. Gandalf purses his lips and speaks about sending a messenger to Dain. Regardless of the sorry state of their negotiations, the King of the Iron Hills needs to know of the approaching danger.

Bilbo shivers. So this is the result of his desperate actions? Should it all mean nothing in the end? His heartache, the pain and this chance granted to him? Will it all fall apart before an army of dark creatures? His heart, once again, fiercely aches for his home. The safety, the simplicity – all the things he will never regain. And he hangs his head, feeling utterly defeated.

Bard shrugs off his coat and wraps it around Bilbo’s shoulders. “Do not worry so, Master Hobbit. If not for you, many of us would lie dead already.”

Bilbo forces a bleak imitation of a smile on his face. “But there are so many…”

Thranduil shakes his head. “They may be many, but that does not make them skilled warriors.”

“And there is a far better chance of victory when fighting united,” Gandalf adds.

Their cheerful words do not lighten Bilbo’s mood. Instead his gaze falls to his own blade – he heard the news, he knows how many orcs there are. They will need every blade to win.

Bard’s hands tighten on his shoulders. “You need not fight in this battle,” he tells Bilbo, “You have already done more than enough.”

He means it, too, Bilbo can tell. Not one of those present in this tent will begrudge him should he choose to turn and flee. And yet he is the only one present who needs not fear death. So he nods at Bard, casts a baleful smile at Thranduil and Gandalf and rises to his feet. The magic holding him here is weakening, he has felt it since Smaug died. But while he still is here, he will do what he can.

 

***

 

Being dead does not make a battle any less frightening. Nor does it make the cuts he receives sting any less.  

He does not whether it is due to the fading magic or his small size that he passes unseen through orcs and goblins alike. Even men rarely take notice of him, and elves always seem surprised. He does not recall when he last saw a friendly face – he’d been with Thranduil and Gandalf – and then a dark cloud of bats with razor-sharp claws had descended, and the world around had dissolved in blood, dust, screams and flashing blades.

Time has lost its meaning – all Bilbo knows that there are steadily more corpses littering the ground. Blood has turned charred earth into mud, and even he cannot avoid stepping onto torn off limbs and shattered bones. His vision is blurred, and he is glad that he is invisible, because it becomes hard to tell friend from foe.

Blood-caked, and with their faces twisted in rage and despair, the differences between men, elves, dwarves and orcs dwindle. Bilbo stumbles, dodges and twists, and feels utterly caught in a nightmare. He cannot stop long enough to gather his thoughts, and yet he seems barely there.

For a moment he wonders if this is the magic giving out.

Then he hears Azog roar in triumph, and his dead heart gives a sudden throb. He sees the mace high in the air, recognizes the form prone on the ground in front of the pale orc – and forgets having ever felt hollow or exhausted.

Determination soars and Bilbo throws himself forward, pushing his body harder than he ever has before. He grips his blade in both hands – he is too small to deliver a killing blow, and that is an honor that ought to be Thorin’s – but he can cut into the back of the orc’s knees.

And Sting sinks in deeply, cutting through veins and tendons, and Azog’s roar of triumph becomes one of pain instead. His mace falls from his hands, and around them the fighting slows down. Confusion washes over many faces –

Not Thorin’s, as he uses the moment to return to his feet, grasp Orcrist and level the blade at Azog’s throat.

When the defiler’s head hits the ground, the battle has turned. Bilbo feels elated, smiles, as he remains unseen – until he feels the cold bite of steel in his side.

The goblin looks just as confused. He tugs at the blade that is stuck deep in Bilbo’s side, and it makes an unpleasant, wet sound. Bilbo feels queasy, and stumbles. Suddenly he can’t seem to bring his own sword up, and the monster of crusted metal is sticking out of his side.

Then there’s a roar, and Dwalin smashes the goblin’s skull in.

“Burglar!” the dwarf shouts, staring in search at the empty air, “Bilbo!”

Around them the battle is fought with renewed vigor; now that victory seems close at hand. Bilbo stumbles, tries to focus, and the world blurs. Has the magic already …

Then there are hands on his shoulders, and when Bilbo looks up, Dwalin is looking at him. Not through him, but at him – the dwarf can see him, and Bilbo’s heart lurches with relief. Dwalin’s hands are strangely gentle as he guides Bilbo to lean against him; concern and terror in his eyes – and it takes a moment until Bilbo realizes that it is directed at him.

“Stay with me,” Dwalin says, his eyes studying the blade that is still stuck through Bilbo’s side with unveiled worry, “I will get you to the healers. Just try to …”

Bilbo can’t help the warmth he feels at Dwalin’s concern. Or the soft smile that spreads on his face. He rests a hand on Dwalin’s arm.

“I’m fine, master dwarf,” he answers, “Do not worry so. I’m …”

“Stay still,” Dwalin hisses, trying to keep Bilbo still without hurting him further.

“No, truly, listen,” Bilbo protests. And because there is no other way, he grasps Dwalin’s hand and moves it to his throat. Where he knows the dwarf will not feel a pulse.

“What…?” Dwalin stutters, horrified.

Bilbo closes his eyes. Sweet as Dwalin’s concern is – especially after their last parting – the truth about his condition makes this bitter.

“I am already dead, master dwarf,” Bilbo says, “I was … killed in the mountains. It is a lucky bit of magic that has allowed me to carry on – I meant to tell you, but at first I did not understand myself, and then the time was never right.”

He sighs, as Dwalin remains frozen.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry,” Bilbo says – he may be rambling, but he needs to get this off his chest, “I did not intend to deceive you. But you needn’t worry about me – this is a bit of a discomfort, but I will not suffer from it.”

So that Dwalin may return and fight for those that still live, Bilbo wants to say. Instead, he shuts his mouth and waits for the dwarf to react. See, if he fears that dead creature he is cradling in his arms.

The fingers around his shoulders first tremble minutely, then tighten. Dwalin’s eyes are large, incredulous.

Bilbo grows too nervous, so he looks away, and, absentmindedly, pulls the blade from his side. The sound makes his stomach turn again, but there is barely any blood on it, and the cut is white instead of red.

The magic is truly wearing thin.

Abruptly, thick arms wrap around him and he is crushed against Dwalin’s chest. For a moment, Bilbo is completely frozen – and then he melts into the embrace. It’s the relief he has sought for so long, the absolution he has wished for from his dwarves.

To know that they care for him. That they…

“How long?” Dwalin rasps, his face buried in Bilbo’s hair, “How long do you have?”

The hobbit swallows. “Not very long, I think,” he mumbles, “I don’t know. Until your home has successfully been reclaimed…but the magic is fading.”

The embrace tightens and under other circumstances Bilbo would have protested that his bones might break. Now, he welcomes it.

“Then stay safe,” Dwalin tells him, “Stay safe and stay here and wait until I come back!”

 

***

 

As morning dawns – pale and clear – and victory is sounded, Bilbo wonders why he still lingers. He is tired and worn, and even death cannot stop him from feeling pain. Around him, men and elves and dwarves wander the battlefield, looking for survivors.

He probably should go. Gandalf will be worried. Bard was also so concerned for him. And Dwalin…

“Bilbo!”

Dwalin has returned for him. With a faint smile Bilbo lets himself grow visible once again, and he sways on his feet from the exertion.

“You are still here, thank Mahal,” the dwarf exclaims, “Now, come with me. The others are in the mountain.”

He scoops up Bilbo when it becomes obvious that the hobbit is unsteady. Bilbo blinks, and wraps and arm around Dwalin’s neck. It is not uncomfortable, to be carried thusly. Once he might have protested being treated like a child – but now he welcomes the tender attention.

“Do the others know?” he asks when Erebor’s entrance comes closer.

Dwalin shakes his head.

“Then,” Bilbo’s heart drops, “… I am banished, still.”

“Thorin wasn’t in his right mind, and you know that,” Dwalin returns sharply, “None of us were. And I know there’s more than one dwarf in there that would like nothing better than to apologize to you.”

 

***

Indeed, Bilbo’s return to the mountain is better received than he would have ever dreamt it to be. Fili, with a large cut running down the side of his face, is the first to see them, and his shout of joy attracts the rest of the company. Kili lifts Bilbo out of Dwalin’s arms, twirls him around, singing “We did it! Thanks to you we won!”

Dori steps up and fusses over Bilbo’s appearance, “…and some good food,” and Bilbo can’t help but smile. Bifur musses up his hair, and Bofur draws him into another hug. Soon Bilbo aches from all the friendly pats and embraces, but his heart feels as if it could burst from happiness.

And then Thorin steps forward and sinks onto his knees. “Without your clear head and quick thinking we would never have won this. For now and forever Erebor is indebted to you, Bilbo Baggins. And if you will have my apology, it is yours.”

To Bilbo, it feels like all of his pain and heartaches are finally being rewarded. His suffering recognizes. So he can throw his arms around Thorin with a bright smile and proclaim that “I forgave you a long time ago, stubborn dwarf.”

When Thorin’s arms wrap around Bilbo’s back and hold him close, he does not think he has ever been happier. The magic, for all it put him through, was truly the greatest gift he has ever received.

“Will you step out with me?” Thorin asks, “Stand as my equal in this reclaimed kingdom?”

“Whatever you ask of me,” Bilbo replies.

 

***

Outside, the sun is shining, and the battlefield does not look so bleak. Tents have been erected, banners glitter. And all heads turn, as Erebor’s ancient horn resounds over the plain for the first time in many decades.

"All hail Thorin, King under the Mountain!" Dain exclaims from his place under the gate, and the wind carries his voice.

Bilbo feels something give in his chest. The magic is unraveling. His task is fulfilled. It is a warm, brilliant feeling - the burdens are gone, as are the grievances, and he can't help the quiet, surprised "oh" that falls from his lips.

"Bilbo?" Fili asks, as his knees give away. The cheer is taken up by the other dwarves soldiers, though Thorin dives forward to catch Bilbo as he falls.

The sky overhead is wide and blue and beautiful.

"No! Bilbo!" Gandalf shouts and pushes through. More soldiers take up the chant – “King under Mountain! King under the Mountain!” – it signals victory, it signals the restoration of the kingdom. The voices of men join in.

"Bilbo, what is wrong?" Thorin asks, frantic and worried, and Bilbo wants to tell him that everything is fine, but he can't find his voice. So he smiles instead. At Thorin, Fili and Kili, Dwalin and Balin and Bofur and Gandalf and hopes his smile tells them how happy he is and has been to share this adventure with them.

How grateful he is to have seen it come to a successful conclusion. How warm it has made his heart to have gained their friendship – to be here with them, today, after all they have been through together. How glad he is that they are with him right now.

And then he lets himself sink into that beckoning, peaceful oblivion.

 

***

 

Thorin stares at the unmoving body in shock. In front of the wall, the crowds are cheering on him, while he holds the cold hand of his burglar. The small body is not moving, not even breathing, and -

"What's wrong with him?" Kili shouts, looking from Gandalf to Oin. He does not want to believe, while his older brother is already pale. Oin opens his mouth to speak, but Gandalf shakes his head.

"I will explain later," he tells them, "The people are waiting for you, King Thorin."

And like in a dream Thorin rises, his head straight and faces the cheering troops. It is a beautiful day, with the air crisp and fresh and full of promises. Even the clear blue sky speaks of new beginnings and good fortune.

 

***

 

When Thorin stumbles inside - the cheers still ringing in his ears, and followed by his just as distraught nephews - he finds his company solemn around a stone slab. On top of it, bedded on bedrolls and coats, is their burglar. Even from the distance, Thorin recognizes the pallor and the lack of motion for what it is.

"Bilbo!" Kili exclaims, "What happened to him?"

He stumbles forward, followed more sedately by Fili. Oin shakes his head, as does Gandalf.

"Why? How..." Kili trembles, "He was just with us, out there, and not..."

Gandalf straightens up. "It is a longer story, so please let us sit."

Thorin gestures for his nephews to follow, but he will stand vigil over the still body. No matter how often he meets with death, the experience is always surreal. Only moments ago he had talked to Bilbo, and though the hobbit had been pale and exhausted, there had been no clue...

"Hobbits," Gandalf begins, "are remarkable in many aspects. They do not deal in magic, but a kind of it is granted some from time to time. If granted then it allows the hobbit in question to linger on after death and see his affairs settled or a wish fulfilled."

There is a moment of utter silence.

Then the group starts to shout. "Are you saying he was...?" Gloin roars, while Fili sputters in disbelief. Bofur pulls his hat down, and Bifur mutters in angry Khuzdul. "No, but that would mean..." Ori whispers, while Oin says "he was always so cold and pale..."

And Thorin has to accept the unthinkable. Sometime on his quest Bilbo Baggins died, and none of them noticed.

"When, Gandalf?" Balin asks, his voice choked, "When did he..."

The wizard brushes the copper locks aside and reveals a familiar wound. It is as raw and gaping as it was when Thorin first saw it in Laketown.

"The elves?" Gloin explodes.

"No. It happened in the tunnels under the Misty Mountains, or so Bilbo told me," Gandalf explains, "Though he never said how it happened."

"I wish we had known earlier," Fili mutters, “I wish we had … could have…”

His voice cracks, and he buries his face in his hands instead of completing the sentence. The many what-ifs, all the unfulfilled hopes and wishes now hang heavily over their heads. Promises to show Bilbo the beauty of the mountain, hopes to make him feel at home here – now they will never come true.

Gandalf sighs heavily, as he looks over the company. Most faces display shock – there are tears streaming down Ori’s face already, and Kili’s eyes are red-rimmed as he worries his lower lip. Thorin is white, his face a mask of disbelief. Behind him, Balin shakes his head sadly. Dwalin stands silently, and looks a bit contemplative.

“I knew,” Dwalin says, breaking the suffocating silence.

Even Gandalf stares at him in surprise.

“I found out during battle,” he tells the company, and if the grief is plain in his voice, it is of no consequence, “After he injured Azog I saw a blade pierce thin air and recalled our hobbit’s odd skill. Went after him and had an awful fright then. But he told me it didn’t matter, that it was only some ancient magic that made him linger.”

“Until the quest has been fulfilled or failed, or the body is destroyed,” Gandalf adds.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Dori asks, sharply.

Dwalin sighs. “There was no time.”

“That is why you were so frantic to find him once the battle was over,” Ori concludes, and wipes at his eyes, “Because the magic…”

“Aye,” Dwalin says and closes his eyes, “Should the magic fade I did not want him to be alone.”

His words summon the bleak scenario of the magic giving out earlier. To have Bilbo die on the battlefield; alone, friendless and so far from home. With Thorin’s stark accusations echoing in the air.

“I am glad you brought him to me,” Thorin says after a moment, and swallows thickly, “Thank you – I dare not imagine not having had an opportunity to take back my words and apologize for my deeds.”

The guilt would have devoured him. Regained kingdom or not, none of them would have known happiness knowing the price one of their own paid for it. Even now it is a bitter fate to accept. To know Bilbo died for their home; suffered and died for a group that barely welcomed him at first and was quick to cast him out at the end.

With a choked noise Kili stumbles out of his seat. For a moment he seems to collapse on Bilbo’s chest – then he enfolds the hobbit’s small body in his arms and slides to the floor, Bilbo clutched tightly to his own chest. 

“Is… isn’t there any kind of magic….?” He stammers, gazing up at Gandalf.

The wizard stares at the scene with a heavy heart. He cannot deny his responsibility in this – had he not deemed Bilbo the right one for this, the hobbit would still be alive and happy in Bag End, and not cold and dead in a dwarf’s arms.

“There is none,” he replies, even as he internally continues to apologize to Bilbo and Belladonna, “No magic can bring back the dead.”

Kili sobs and curls tighter around Bilbo’s body.

“I really wish we had had more time with him,” Balin says, quietly, “Especially after those last days – those cannot have been easy on him.”

“They have not,” Gandalf confirms, recalling Bilbo’s pale face as even Thranduil looked on with concern, “But I think in the end, he was happy.”

He may not have been present for the reconciliation, but he had seen the smile on Bilbo’s face when he had stepped outside next to Thorin. Small, yet utterly content – and so painfully resembling the expressions Gandalf recalled from a young hobbit’s face that he had already understood what was bound to occur.

“He saw his wish fulfilled,” Gandalf adds, softly, “Your homeland reclaimed, the battle won and everybody reconciled.”

 

***

 

Bilbo’s funeral is a solemn, yet strangely grand occasion. In an attempt to imitate hobbit customs – customs that nobody truly knows – they attempt to replace gems with flowers and stone with soil. And where no real greenery will bloom, emeralds are shaped into imitations.

It is also the first occasion Bard, Thranduil and Thorin stand united.

Bilbo would have liked it, Gandalf thinks, and then sees about getting Thorin’s letter delivered to the Shire.

 

***

 

It takes month, but eventually a reply arrives. With shaking hands, Thorin unfolds the parchment, throat dry, and then reads the reply the Thain has sent.

_I will not lie to you: it grieves me terribly to hear my grandson has died so far from here, and I do not deny a desire to rage at you for not taking better care. Yet I do also understand that the wilderness is a dangerous place and that accidents do happen. Therefore I shall take comfort in your words that you do grief his loss as I do._

_Also I have to admit to a certain curiosity. It is perhaps a fault of us hobbits, but as we have little dealings with the outside world, your tale at times seems strange to me. Time permitting, might I receive an account – so I can learn what my grandson did die for._  

_I have to admit the honors he has been bestowed upon do sound strange to us – statues and portraits to commemorate the dead are unfamiliar to us hobbits, though I have heard of this practices from men. It does give me pleasure to know you treasured Bilbo so, and knowing him, I believe he may have felt rather smug about having an actual library to his name._

_That said, while I appreciate your offer to restoring Bilbo to his homeland, I would decline. It is a long distance and we hobbits are rather practical with our funeral rites. We do care for the deceased to be buried close to those he cherishes and that cherish him. And while Bilbo was certainly cherished in the Shire, I do believe he holds that same place in your hearts. In the end to us hobbits home usually is the place where our loved ones are._

_Fin_


	13. A darkness of the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt [abridged]: The Durin Line is known for suffering from mental illness/obsessions. And Thorin is known for getting kind of broody and stubborn/temperamental at times. Can I have Thorin's "darker" side surfacing every once in a while in a relationship with Bilbo? 
> 
> Originally here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5346.html?thread=11213538#t11213538

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be Aware:  
> \- Domestic Violence  
> \- Dark!Thorin  
> \- Abuse  
> \- Angst  
> \- 9k words
> 
> \--> this is a dark and lengthy one-shot. I edited the ending after I first posted this to the kink_meme, because I wasn't quite happy with it. I still am a bit "meh" about the ending, but I didn't really want this to end on an unhappy note. (though what was interesting was the feedback - for some reconciliation was a valid option, for others it is impossible. I get both points and while I usually agree more with the later, I did try to work in the former here. Err, enough ramblings)

The first time Bilbo is left wondering happens a month after the battle of the five armies.

Thorin is healed enough to be on his feet, and even though it’s winter the weather has been nice, so Bilbo contemplates visiting Mirkwood – he has been invited, and he never truly got an opportunity to converse with the elves there.

(And perhaps he could help with fortifying the current peace between elves and dwarves. Right now he’s feeling slightly useless, since most of the dwarves at Erebor treat him with a polite distance, and the company members are staggeringly busy).

He’s just making his way out of the gate, rucksack on his back, when a heavy hand clamps down on his upper arm.

Bilbo is spun around to meet Thorin’s furious eyes. “And where are you going, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo blinks surprised. It is not the address – Thorin does not call him Bilbo outside of his private chambers – but the grip is painful and Thorin looks truly angry.

“I, ah, was ...” It occurs to Bilbo that mentioning elves won’t go over well. And behind Thorin, Dain is watching with curiosity. He swallows, and eventually settled for honesty. “I was thinking of visiting Laketown and Mirkwood – with everybody busy over here, well, I thought I could perhaps...”

Thorin’s frown darkens. “And you didn’t think it necessary to inform me?”

“I left word with Balin,” replies Bilbo. It may not be necessary to mention that Thorin had been gone the last mornings before Bilbo had woken, and often returned tired out of his mind.

“Or did you pay any mind to your own safety?” Thorin’s fingers clench tighter, and he doesn’t seem to be noticing that he is almost lifting Bilbo from the ground. The hobbit clenches his teeth – this will leave bruises.

Thorin leans in. “You may have forgotten, but even if we have peace, this is not your Shire. There are less than savory characters out there, none of whom would hesitate even a moment to use you for their own means.”

Bilbo pales. Then Thorin lets him go so abruptly he’s stumbling.

The King gestures to two guards. “Escort Mr. Baggins to his chambers.”

***

Kili visits later the afternoon – alone, as an injury to his leg prevents him from joining Fili on his excursions deeper into the mines. “So I heard you tried your luck as an escape artist?” he inquiries cheerfully.

Bilbo frowns, as the young Prince laughs – and the expression banishes the pain Bilbo remembers seeing him in. “Perhaps you should stick to your profession as burglar. Exiting through the main gate is not very inconspicuous.”

“Well, I’ll have to learn the secret exits from you, then,” returns Bilbo, unconsciously rubbing at his arms.

Kili shrugs. “There aren’t any,” he says, and then his expression turns playful, “We could, however, make some.”

Bilbo agrees, and they spend the rest of the afternoon envisioning hilarious additions to Erebor; including a water slide (their barrel ride out of Thranduil’s dungeons had been comfortable, but both can see how under changed circumstances something similar can be fun) and a maze (in all honesty, vast parts of Erebor are exactly that to Bilbo already).

It’s light-hearted fun, allowing them for a moment to escape reality with its memories of battle, destruction and death. And it pleases Bilbo to see Kili’s wounds healing. The young prince still heavily relies on crutches, but he is definitely improving.

***

In the evening Thorin arrives with a beautifully carved box tucked under his arm.

Bilbo is sitting at his writing desk (the one he wishes was facing a window), going over calculations Balin indicated he might need some help with. He’s been distracted, and going over the calculations is dragging on, but he doesn’t turn when Thorin enters.

For a moment only the scratching of Bilbo’s quill fills the air.

Then the King clears his throat.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, sounding slightly hesitant, “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to react like that – you surprised me.”

And he sounds truly remorseful, so Bilbo sets aside his quill and turns.

“Never mind,” he tells Thorin, “Next time I’ll let you know ahead.”

“I would like that, yes.” Thorin steps closer, and then holds out the box. It’s inlaid with gold and gemstones, sparkling in the light of the lamps in their quarters.

“A little gift to make up for my error,” says Thorin.

Bilbo hesitates, and then directs a smile up at Thorin. “You know, for most people an apology absolutely suffices.”

However, he takes the gift, and when he opens it the box holds a large emerald pendant on a simple gold chain. It’s one of the most beautiful gem stones Bilbo has ever seen, and words fail him.

“It reminded me of your eyes,” says Thorin and his smile is slightly bashful.

***

A week later there is a big celebration acknowledging a victorious battle of a past age. Initially Bilbo feels a little ridiculous in his ornament-laden garments, but Thorin can’t even move his head very far without setting off his own balance since his crown is ridiculously heavy. And Fili and Kili seem to sparkle all over, so Bilbo is somewhat grateful that the tailor at least acknowledged his wish to keep the colors decent.

Once the ceremonial part of the celebration is completed and enough alcohol has been consumed, the atmosphere grows far more comfortable. Sitting next to Fili, Kili and Thorin, Bilbo – made maudlin by remembrances of the year past – contemplates his home. Wonders aloud what has become of Bag End.

And that he’d like to go home to see it again.

Kili is openly disappointed. “But isn’t Erebor your new home?” he asks.

Fili elbows him. “I’m certain he only intents to go back for a short visit – you know, to pick up his belongings.”

(And while this may be true, while Erebor may be home to Bilbo now, he isn’t ready yet to leave the Shire behind forever). He realizes that everybody is watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer, so Bilbo forces a smile and says “of course” even though he isn’t certain.

Thorin doesn’t miss the hesitation. Nor does he forget how Bilbo’s answer came just a bit too late.

When they have returned to their quarters, he turns to Bilbo, features dark. “Haven’t we made you feel welcome here? Isn’t having a King and his family at your disposal enough for you? Haven’t I given you the nicest clothes, the best food and the most precious diamonds? What else do you desire?”

He looms over Bilbo so threateningly the hobbit instinctively takes a step backwards and holds up his hands. “Not at all, not…”

And then Thorin grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard. “Haven’t I done enough?”

Bilbo’s head spins. “You have, you have,” he protests weakly, “And I’m not asking you for anything. I just…”

“Then what do you want?” Thorin grunts out. His grip tightens – and he’s too close, too close and Bilbo’s dizzy and everything’s turning too fast, and then the ground is rushing …

And then Thorin’s grip is the only thing holding his up.

Bilbo blinks in surprise, finding his knees have given out.

“Oh,” he mutters, and something makes him look up. All anger has fled the King’s face; instead Thorin looks at him with wide-eyes. His grip immediately turns gentle.

Bilbo manages to get his feet under him (they still feel weak), but Thorin insists on setting him down in a stuffed armchair.

“Are you alright?” the King under the mountain asks. Bilbo is surprised at the depth of fear he can see in Thorin’s eyes – fear that something is wrong with Bilbo, fear of losing him. (It’s love, a part of his mind says. Another voice, dark and poisonous whispers that isn’t this the kind of love Thorin had for the Arkenstone, too?).

Bilbo chuckles nervously. “Ah, yes, well, I guess I was surprised? And maybe had a bit too much drink?”

Thorin sighs. “We both may have had too much,” he admits.

“Then we should better get ourselves to sleep,” says Bilbo.

“Indeed,” agrees Thorin, “But if you feel faint again, please do seek out Oin.”

***

Bilbo does not go and seek out Oin the next day. He does, however, discover another set of purple, finger-shaped bruises on his shoulders.

In the following days he often joins Kili, who, with his slowly healing leg, has been assigned tasks that require little movement. Bilbo helps where he can – he’s always had a good mind for numbers, and Balin certainly appreciates it.

Sometimes he wanders up to the library – run almost exclusively by Ori while Balin is too busy being advisor to the King and his heirs. Together they update the catalogues, grieve for lost tomes of ancient history, giggle over chronicles that are little more than gossip (Isildur, one author wants them to know, was scared of cats), quote the most outrageous sentences from trashy fiction (there’s a large collection of short novels translated from elvish sometime in the second age, and it’s utterly hilarious) and oscillate between cracking up with laughter and being scandalized at those works that deal with persons they know. According to a certain Gondorian author, hobbits are no larger than a thumb. Others suggest dwarves are actually born from stone. And there’s one person ranting about elvish hairstyles in the second age, naming Elrond as a particularly horrendous offender.

It’s brilliant and Bilbo forgets about Thorin’s strange moods.

***

Bilbo isn’t even certain whether the next incident is an incident. In general, he isn’t sure what is happening – Thorin had always had a temper (he still remembers being dangled over the wall). But one evening, when they both aren’t tired out of their minds, Bilbo finds himself pressed into the sheets by Thorin.

He enjoys the attention and the intimacy. Likes how Thorin’s hands caress his body, likes playing – and sometimes pulling – on Thorin’s hair himself, tracing the firm muscle – until at one point Thorin gathers both of his hands in one of his and presses them down over Bilbo’s head.

At first it sends a spark of arousal through Bilbo. This is new, and part of him is an adventurous Took.

It’s not that much fun when Bilbo asks Thorin to slow down and his words are ignored. Thorin is looking at Bilbo, but apparently not seeing him – and with his hands caught up, Bilbo can only squirm helplessly.

Completion is exhilarating, but afterwards Bilbo’s heart is racing with more than just fulfillment.

***

The next time Bilbo visits the library, his hand hovers over the tome on Durin’s line. It’s a translated version – and Bilbo knows that it addresses dragon sickness, curses and all the other ills that have plagued Thorin’s ancestors.

Then he bites down on his lip. He’s seeing ghosts, and that book won’t help.

He marches away and then Kili finds him and later Fili joins them and there’s no way he’ll relate those two to any of their less-than-sane ancestors. (However, this also means, that no matter how hard Fili tries, the mischievous glint in his eyes obstructs the image of a noble and majestic ruler he is trying to achieve. Kili currently is not trying at all).

***

Two days later, Bilbo asks if he can join Bofur on his excursions to the mines. The cheerful dwarf hesitates, mentioning the dangers, to which Bilbo merely raises an eyebrow and says “dragon”.

Bofur laughs. “Right you are,” he says, “But check it out with Thorin.”

After his misadventure on his last excursion, Bilbo does.

Thorin refuses.

Bilbo’s temper gets the better of him.

The backhand, however, catches him by surprise.

"Neither of us thought me suited to adventure either, and look how that turned out," spits Bilbo, a hand pressed to his smarting cheek.

Thorin frowns and falls silent. Their eyes remain fixed on each other - and Bilbo can see how Thorin acknowledges his logic to be sound, but is unwilling to concede the point. Eventually the king sighs.

"Be that as it may, I just don't want you exposed to any unnecessary risks. If you want to visit the mines, I'll arrange a guard to go with you, but I'd rather you did not venture down there on your own."

And with that Thorin turns away.

Bilbo feels flabbergasted. When the door falls shut behind the King, he sits down on their shared bed. Maybe Thorin’s stressed out, he reasons with himself. That has happened before, and Thorin has always been horrified once he’d seen the bruises.

But he’d never raised a hand against Bilbo.

And he hadn’t apologized this time either.

***

For some unfathomable reason, when Kili asks what happened to his cheek, Bilbo claims to have fallen out of bed.

He doesn’t join the mining excursion.

Instead he heads up to the library. His stomach is in knots and he feels guilty – because this is bound to change his perception of Thorin and his heirs, and may make him paranoid – yet he takes the tome on Durin’s children.

His guilt is deepened when he finds another treasure chest waiting in their chambers. This one holds a delicate headdress, spun from golden strings, pearls and rubies.

***

The first messengers of spring arrive.

Bilbo eventually manages to needle his way out of the mountain - communication with Laketown needs to be overseen, and even though the snow still covers the landscape, the sun is out and the air feels warmer.

"Enjoying yourself?" asks Kili who is on horseback next to Bilbo. He still limps, but the healing injury doesn't impede his riding.

Bilbo shrugs. "As lovely as the mountain is, the first spring sunshine of the year is hard to measure up to."

Kili chuckles. "Don't tell anybody, but I agree. Somewhat."

They share a meaningful look - Bilbo at least feels rather ridiculous in his fur coat. Also the host surrounding them hadn't really been necessary, though he sees the formal necessity since they're traveling as emissaries.

The errands don't take too long and the sun is still out when they arrive at Erebor's gates. Kili and Bilbo dismiss their guards, and instead Bilbo retrieves his pipe and bow and arrows for Kili and the evening becomes their own little break away.

Bilbo once again thinks of Bag End.

He is careful when he breeches the topic with Thorin.

"I'd just like to look after my possessions," Bilbo explains, "And I'd probably return to Erebor by autumn. I wouldn't be gone for all that long."

He doesn't add how Thorin will be even busier once the trade routes blocked by snow become open. Already now they only see each other late at night.

The King hesitates. Eventually he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and seems to ready himself for something. Bilbo feels himself tensing in response.

"Well, I had intended to ask you under different circumstances, but I may as well do so now," says Thorin, "Bilbo, would you do me the honor and become my consort?"

For a moment Bilbo is dumbfounded. Then a warmth he hasn’t felt in forever spreads through his chest, and he can barely keep from smiling. Instead, Bilbo tilts his head. "Am I not that already?”

“Officially,” Thorin adds with a hopeful smile, “Partnerships like this are not uncommon.”

“Even with hobbits?” Bilbo playfully raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” Thorin clears his throat, “There are some advantages to my position.”

Bilbo bursts out laughing. “Of course I will, Thorin.”

And he is delirious with happiness. Bag End is forgotten.

This is home now.

***

The date for the wedding is set in May, and the announcement causes a small uproar in Erebor. Bilbo finds himself being congratulated by dwarves known and unknown, and before long letters from Laketown and Rivendell arrive, too.

Bilbo forgets about the book he borrowed.

Until, one day, Thorin’s temper once more rears its ugly head.

***

"Why aren't you wearing the headdress I gave you?" Thorin inquires.

Bilbo swallows (but he certainly isn't afraid). "Well, I thought I'd leave it for special occasions."

"That simple thing?" Thorin asks, "Certainly not. I'll have you made something for special occasions, one that will properly reflect your value."

And something about the intensity stops Bilbo from protesting. He could do without the jewels.

Thorin puts an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and draws the hobbit up from his chair. It’s already evening, but Bilbo has promised Balin to look over some numbers. Though now, that Thorin’s hands tuck him away, he sets the quill aside and follows.

There’s a strange assertiveness in Thorin’s movements. Or maybe it’s just Bilbo feeling strange. But he lets himself be guided to their bed, and sits when Thorin presses him down.

The King kneels in front of him, silent. His fingers trace Bilbo’s face, and the touch is reverent, yet harder than a caress. For a moment, his right hand teases Bilbo’s ear.

“I would cover you in gold,” Thorin mutters, absentmindedly.

Bilbo holds his breath. He has been made aware of the dwarven custom of earrings – but he refuses to let anybody drill holes, no matter how small, into his earlaps.

“Gold and gems and silver and jewels and all the riches Middle Earth can provide,” Thorin continues. His eyes are looking somewhere beyond Bilbo, at something that is not even in the room.

Then his hands slide down. Suddenly, those strong fingers close around Bilbo’s throat.

“I would make it so everyone will know,” Thorin whispers. Bilbo is deadly still – doesn’t dare to move, his heart fluttering in his chest.

The fingers around his throat tighten. “Would make it so you would have to stay with me forever.”

***

When Bilbo wakes the next morning, the fear in his heart has not abated. Thorin is gone, his side of the bed cold, and Bilbo flops back down, stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t know what to make of Thorin’s actions.

His throat is sore, and when he tentatively touches it, he is fairly certain Thorin left bruises. It’s odd – the memory of last night sits ill in his stomach, but he can’t claim that there was no joy in their union. Or that Thorin’s touch was without love.

Is it stress? Or is it …

Bilbo recalls the book he took from the library. It is still in his desk, hidden in one of the drawers. Should he?

There’s a knock at the door, and apparently his presence is requested.

***

Bilbo spends most of the day with Fili and an ambassador from Laketown. They discuss whether Erebor’s slopes would be fertile ground for growing vegetables, and whether the dwarves are willing to allow such an endeavor.  There’s a lot of detail to the discussion, and once the ambassador leaves, both Fili and Bilbo sigh in relief and slump in their seats.

“That was horrid,” complains Bilbo.

Fili groans. “Don’t remind me. He’s coming back in four days. And I don’t even want to think about tomorrow.”

Tomorrow they’ll be dealing with ambassadors from Mirkwood. Thorin is bound to be in a foul mood. Bilbo swallows, and violently pushes the thought aside.

***

When Thorin’s hand slips that night, Bilbo has almost been expecting it. It doesn’t dull the pain – but this time Thorin’s actions are clearly related to the pressure of his duties. For some twisted reason, one that Bilbo does not want to think too closely about, this makes Bilbo sleep better.

***

However, it is not always related to pressure. The times Thorin loses his temper multiply. Bilbo develops a system to deal with them, though he still walks away with bruises from time to time.

Once Thorin even forgets they have an audience – and Balin frowns when he watches Thorin roughly take hold of Bilbo’s arm. He never says a word, but Bilbo doubts the dwarf has forgotten. Because sometimes he looks at Thorin with a certain expression Bilbo can’t quite describe.

***

On the day of his betrothal, Bilbo wakes with a sore body. Thorin didn’t return last night, but from what Balin told him of dwarven customs, that was to be expected. (He tells himself he is disappointed. And maybe somewhere he is, because the bed is large, and it won’t quite grow warm enough when he’s alone. But then there are those purple bruises).

He is lucky his throat is free of them. The clothes laid out for him are not particularly high-collared, though the furs at least hide the abrasions on his collar bone. His back smarts the entire time – he had never noticed, but Thorin had fiercely pressed him against the stone wall.

And there are still fading bruises on his wrists and upper arms.

For a moment he wonders whether this betrothal is a good idea.

Then he tells himself that what happened that night wasn’t Thorin’s fault – the King is under stress. Bilbo knows him well enough to be able to judge Thorin’s character, and for all his stubbornness, Thorin’s heart is in the right place.

Still, there are some guests who remark upon his paleness after the ceremony.

Bilbo wears a smile and tells them that it’s just the lack of sunlight.

***

For a week or two things improve. Thorin is thoughtful, warm and even playful. During private meals he jokes with Dwalin and his nephews, and in the evenings he holds Bilbo close to his chest. On days when he is particularly happy he spins visions of Erebor in the future – its grandeur restored, its citizens happy and Bilbo and Thorin among them.

Bilbo rips up the half-written letter to Gandalf he penned before the betrothal in a fit of panic.

***

It doesn’t last.

Thorin oscillates between fits of guilt, showering Bilbo with affection and presents, and uncontrolled rage – or perhaps it is something deeper. Bilbo doesn’t know what to call it, doesn’t know whom to ask.

Eventually he consults the book on dragon sickness, on the history of Thorin’s ancestors.

His findings do nothing to sooth his increasingly sensitive nerves. Sometimes his stomach now turns at the smell of food. Other days he barely gets out of bed, too exhausted.

(Usually, those days are preceded by nights that Thorin is less than affectionate. Bilbo does not dare to say “no”, then, not when Thorin’s eyes are cold and cruel and he barely recognizes him).

***

"Are you well?" asks Kili, worry creasing his brow, "You're very pale."

Bilbo swallows. His heart is clenching painfully at the honest concern he sees on Kili's face, and he can't help but rub at his bruised wrists – the bruises are well hidden underneath golden bracelets.

"It's probably the weather," Bilbo replies, "It’s been raining for some time now - once the sun comes out I'll feel a lot of better."

"Then let's hope for a lot of sunshine," says Kili.

They both ignore the fact that the weather outside does not reach them far under the mountain.

***

Bilbo begins to feel isolated.

Not that his help isn’t welcome, where he offers it. However, it is rare that anybody specifically asks for him, and he gets the impression, the work can be well completed without his input. Perhaps, he thinks, this is also due to his position.

He’s consort to the King – perhaps dwarven custom means nobody can ask a service of him.

Bilbo understands this. Yet he can’t help missing how freely people came up to him before – even in the Shire, when it sometimes was utterly annoying to be disturbed from his books by a knock on his front door.

He also sees the changes in Thorin’s behavior. By now it is impossible to deny them; and after studying the tomes in the library, Bilbo is certain that this is not dragon sickness either. A curse on the line of Durin, a tome had mentioned, and Bilbo feels he’s just learning the details.

Fili and Kili are worried, but he doesn’t want to burden them with his knowledge.

Neither does he want to go to any other member of the company. Because, Thorin is their King – how could Bilbo ask them to turn traitor?

So when Gandalf comes for a visit in summer, Bilbo approaches the wizard. Only to find his tongue frozen, the words stuck in his chest. The wizard watches him with growing concern, brows furrowed, eyes searching.

(They won’t find anything. The bruises, today, are hidden under Bilbo’s clothes).

“Are you by chance traveling to the Shire?” Bilbo asks instead, “I would love to visit again.”

***

Gandalf agrees, but Thorin is furious.

That night, Bilbo dreads going back to their shared chambers. Thorin had cast him dark glares all afternoon – obviously, he’d heard what Bilbo and Gandalf had agreed on.

“You will stay here,” Thorin declares.

Bilbo’s heart is trembling, but he forces himself to stand tall. “I intend to go, and I will, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin steps closer and Bilbo swallows. “You won’t.”

“You will not stop me from visiting my home,” Bilbo returns.

It is the wrong thing to say. “Is this not your home?” Thorin roars, “Must you embarrass me at every turn? Does it please you to show the entire world how you would rather live in that simple place than in Middle Earth’s richest kingdom? Does it please you to ridicule me?”

“No, I-“

Thorin’s hand cuts off Bilbo’s words, and the hobbit finds himself stumbling backwards. Thorin grips his shoulders, and shoves him – off balance already – against the wall.

“You will stay,” Thorin hisses, and gives Bilbo a shakes, “You will.”

He lets go then, uncaring that Bilbo collapses to the ground. The hobbit holds in a groan – his body aches, his head is spinning, and almost doesn’t dare to breathe until Thorin’s footsteps have vanished into the distance.

The large door to their chamber falls shut.

And Bilbo hears the lock click.

Ice spreads through his veins. He doesn’t want to believe it – is thinking of a thousand other explanations, while he pushes himself up on his shaking legs.

But the door is locked.

Bilbo turns back around to face the decadent room and his heart is racing. For all its luxurious furniture, there are no windows, and the door is made from stone. Right now it feels very much like a cell.

***

Come morning, Bilbo wakes to find the door unlocked, and a tray with breakfast at the bedside. His insides turn, and he pushes it away.

For a moment, though, he wonders if he only imagined the door being locked.

But his aching body tells him it was no nightmare.

Wearily, he dresses and stumbles out. It’s later than he expected, and Fili is quite surprised to see him.

“Gandalf was wondering where you went,” he says, “Said you wanted to leave with him.”

Bilbo makes an odd noise. “Is he still there?”

“Gandalf?” asks Fili, “No, he left quite early this morning. And, should you really be up? Uncle said you were sick, and you don’t look too good.”

***

When evening comes, Bilbo has eaten one slice of bread. The smell of anything else is turning his stomach, and when he takes a long look in the mirror, he is unsurprised that Fili thought him sick. He is visibly thinner, and even the sparkling jewelry can’t hide his pallor.

Although, Bilbo realizes, he won’t heal from this if he stays in Erebor.

If he stays with Thorin.

His heart clenches painfully, then. Somewhere he is still in love with the King. Doesn’t want to part – not, when the other places Bilbo can go to are so far away.

Still, he waits for Thorin to come back. His decision is made.

***

"I can't lose you," Thorin mutters, "I can't."

His grip hurts, and the embrace is warm and Bilbo wishes he could return it, or that it was less painfully honest. Thorin's words echo with the pain of one knowing loss better than anyone should, and the honest fear of experiencing it all over again.

As much as Bilbo still loves Thorin, he wishes it wasn't so. Or that the King wouldn't love him quite so dearly - or that he hadn't forgiven the betrayal and had let Bilbo walk away.

 “Please,” Bilbo murmurs, boneless against Thorin’s bulk, “Please just let me go home.”

There’s no reply, but the hold tightens. Bilbo is too exhausted to protest (and there are already so many bruises on his body, one more set will hardly be a bother), he lets his eyes drift shut and succumbs to the beckoning darkness.

***

For two days, Thorin is nothing but kind. And Bilbo, packing, remembers why he fell in love with him in first place.

Then, Thorin discovers the book. He looks from it to Bilbo, and something shifts in his eyes.

"The sickness is gone!" Thorin yells, "It had me in its thrall for a fortnight, but it has long since passed! Have my actions not sufficiently proven that to you?"

Bilbo has taken a step backwards and watches Thorin wearily.

“Why do you always doubt me?” Thorin hisses. For a moment he is still.

This hasn’t happened before. Bilbo isn’t sure if it’s a good thing – Thorin’s face is obscured from view, and Bilbo’s heart beats faster.

Then the King straightens. When his eyes meet Bilbo’s they are cold; his entire demeanor is changed. Darker, Bilbo thinks, and then Thorin starts advancing. He doesn’t say a word – but his eyes are killing Bilbo all over again.

This is worse than the Arkenstone, Bilbo realizes.

Next thing he knows, he has been backed against the wall, and Thorin is too close, and there’s definitively nothing arousing about this at all.

“Do you think me mad?” Thorin inquires, softly.

His hand softly strokes Bilbo’s cheek, but the caress is a mock, and every instinct Bilbo ever possessed screams at him to run. He doesn’t dare to speak.

“Mad, so I might inadvertently hurt you, my dear hobbit?” Thorin continues. His hand wanders downward, and then his fingers wrap around Bilbo’s throat. There is no pressure to his grip, yet Bilbo can’t breathe.

“Don’t be afraid,” Thorin tells him, “Nothing I do is inadvertent. I am not mad.”

And then his fingers tighten.

“I am not mad!”

Bilbo wonders if this is where he will die. If Thorin will kill him this time.

“And you’d better remember it.”

There's a loud crack when Bilbo's head hits the wall and the hobbit collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Thorin barely manages to catch him, as his heart skips a beat.

His fingers tremble - he hadn't meant to shove Bilbo quite so hard. Hadn't meant to touch the hobbit in anger at all.

***

Thorin rests Bilbo on the bed, carefully changes him into his softest nightshirt. He cleans the wound himself. And when Bilbo fails to wake the following day, he reluctantly consults with Oin and Balin.

Next, he has to tell Fili and Kili that the hobbit is sick. Quite sick, and not waking. He can feel Balin’s eyes boring into his back then – the advisor has seen the bruises and wounds on the hobbit. It’s not Bilbo who is sick.

It’s Thorin himself.

***

On the fifth day, Bilbo wakes. Thorin, who has started reading through the volumes on Bilbo’s desk (and somehow his head begins to clear. His stomach twists with anger at some words, but he can’t deny it any longer. There is something preying on his mind).

His heart skips a beat as the hobbit’s eyelashes flutter. Maybe he can apologize. Begin to make up for his faults. Start anew...

But Bilbo’s eyes are dull. Open, but dull, and the hobbit does not sit up. He doesn’t react to any words, nor to Thorin’s touch. And when Erebor’s best healers come to poke and prod him, Bilbo remains numb, silent and stares sightlessly through them all.

Thorin sends for the elves.

***

"It's a sickness of the mind," the elven healer pronounces, "He has withdrawn deep into his mind - my skills are not sufficient to draw him out again."

Thorin sighs gravely. He has seen this before - after battle, torture or tragedy - how warrior or maiden alike suddenly grew dead to the world once the world became too dark to bear. Some emerged from it, others faded away until death claimed them.

He looks on Bilbo's face. The hobbit is once again staring in the distance, and even though there is no sparkle to his eyes, he is still so very, very beautiful and Thorin can't imagine a life without him.

But he knows he has brought this about. His love has turned poisonous, destructive and may yet claim Bilbo's life. He won't let that happen - even if it will break his heart, even if it will make every day a torture - Bilbo has given him do much, and he only ever wanted to repay him in kind.

So he turns to the elf. "Would perhaps Lord Elrond know further counsel?"

The elf frowns. "He may, though I dare not make any promises. The journey alone would be strenuous for his condition."

Thorin wants to flinch at the painful reminder of how pale and thin Bilbo has become (all because of him), but doesn't. Instead he straightens. "Travel would not be an issue."

He is King of Erebor, the richest of all kingdoms in Middle Earth. What can be bought, he will afford. He would gladly trade the Arkenstone to Thranduil if it could heal Bilbo.

The healer seems contemplative. "In that case, while Rivendell may be a good place to seek counsel, may I offer another suggestion?" at Thorin's nod he continues, "We had a number of similar cases during the last age, and at times it helped the ill to spend time either at their homes or a very tranquil location. From what I understand, the Shire where Master Baggins hails from meets those requirements?"

Thorin recalls the gentle rolling hills of Bilbo's home. Lush green trees, golden fields, well-stocked pantries and cheerful people.

"I understand," he says and keeps his face expressionless.

***

Two weeks later Bilbo's condition has worsened to the point Thorin has to acknowledge that if he wants to save Bilbo's life, he'll have to send him away. There is no other cure for his state, and with each day Bilbo seems to fade a little more.

The first one he tells is Balin.

The wise old dwarf pats his shoulder, and seems relived. Then he frowns. "But you will remain in Erebor?"

Thorin is taken aback. He doesn't want to part from Bilbo (especially when he could lose him forever), but there is something in Balin's tone that leaves him weary.

"I understand you don't want to," says Balin and Thorin has the feeling he is being examined, "But you have a kingdom to rule. Fili is skilled, but not all of the nobles would heed him - it's not a matter of wisdom or experience, only age, and you know how our fellow dwarves can be about that."

What nobody says - and yet Thorin does find out - is that they all think Bilbo is more likely to recover if Thorin - cause of his sickness - is absent.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, until one day Nori sits down next to Thorin and tells him how he had kept himself distant when Ori had been young - painful, but necessary it had been, and yet it had forced Nori to confront himself, too.

Thorin is left feeling a little confused first, but the longer he thinks about it, the clearer Nori's words become. And the day after he has seen Bilbo and company depart from Erebor, he visits the library and asks for the scrolls pertaining to the dragon sickness prevalent in the line of Durin.

***

Bilbo is accompanied by Bofur, Bifur, Dori and Kili, as well as a small host of armed guards. They travel by pony and wagon as far as possible, and this time stick to the road and settlements. It's slow progress, but safe, and Kili - acting as Erebor's ambassador - secures them a warm welcome wherever they appear.

They only run into trouble twice - a group of orcs south of Laketown that doesn't give much trouble, and then they encounter goblins while crossing over the Misty Mountains. This fight turns nasty, and Bofur almost loses an arm. Eventually they are victorious, Kili and Bilbo at unharmed, and once they reach Rivendell Elrond supplies Bofur with an ointment that makes his injuries heal without a scar.

Bilbo, however, remains unresponsive (though the spring sun has returned some color to his face, and from time to time he moves on his own to watch something) and Elrond agrees that sending him home may be best.

To Kili, late in the evening, Elrond confesses that he may be able to call Bilbo back. But that would be painful for the hobbit, and he believes healing on his own will be much healthier. In turn, Kili acknowledges the value of this show of trust by telling no one else.

(And while Elrond wishes for no ill to befall Fili, he thinks Kili may yet make a good ruler).

***

Their arrival in the Shire is chaotic.

Bag End has been occupied by a couple related to Bilbo, Bilbo himself declared dead and while Kili is trying to negotiate their way out of a misunderstanding, the neighbors are watching. Somebody calls to send for the Thain - who Kili recalls is a person of some authority in the Shire.

Before that, the female hobbit straightens up. "You insist Bilbo is not dead, but do you have any proof? How do I know he didn't perish on your ... adventure and you're only after his possessions?"

Kili swallows. He doesn't want to expose Bilbo to the curios eyes of this woman and all the onlookers, not when Bilbo is not himself.

"I can prove my claim, but I would do it before an authority and only as many eyes as absolutely necessary," he replies quietly.

The woman snorts. "Very well. But my husband is a Baggins - a first cousin - and I doubt your claim is better than his."

"As you say, Mrs...?"

"Lobelia Sackville-Baggins," the woman proudly proclaims, and Kili realizes he has heard the name before. In connection with silver spoons and umbrellas. Bilbo wasn't particularly fond of her, he remembers - and understands why.

The woman may be almost two heads smaller than him, but the disgruntlement she radiates while waiting for the Thain feels seriously intimidating. Meanwhile the crowd around them grows, and Kili can tell his warriors tense.

Their company may be harmless hobbits armed with umbrellas, shopping baskets and the odd rusty scythe, and potatoes or leeches should not be fearsome, but somehow Kili has to admit he hopes for a quick solution of this.

He is a little disturbed that the hobbits barely acknowledge the arrival of their Thain beyond clearing a path for him. The authority invested in his position apparently is not overly much, and the man seems not very harried either.

Accompanying him are two elderly hobbits, who introduce themselves as Took and Brandybuck - heads of what are apparently important households in the Shire. Kili internally thanks Balin for all the annoying lessons in etiquette and makes certain to incline his head just so.

The hobbits, in turn, don't really react to his flattering, and any promises of Erebor's riches are shrugged off. Instead they dive straight to the heart of the matter.

"You have proof to show you have some claim to Bag End?" asks the Thain, and Kili sees Lobelia nod enthusiastically.

Kili blinks, and from the shifting behind him he realizes that Bofur is glad not to be in his position. "Er, actually, I don't have any claim to Bag End, but I believe master Bilbo Baggins does."

"But he's dead, isn't he?" somebody mutters quite loudly.

The Thain watches Kili expectantly.

"He isn't," Kili says.

"Then why are you here and not him?" asks Lobelia, and looks at Kili as if he was some insect and not ambassador of Middle Earth's richest kingdom.

Kili takes a deep breath to steady himself before the situation entirely escapes his control. "He is here," he says, "I speak in his stead for the time being."

"I'll only believe that when I see him," says Lobelia.

The Thain nods. "I do agree, while this is good news, I would rather see proof for them."

Kili has already accepted that this concession he will have to make. He only hopes Bilbo won't hate him for it later.

He nods towards the wagon. "Only for a small number of eyes."

He doesn't say why, and Lobelia wonders loudly at it, though at least the Thain seems to be able to guess. So the man agrees. "Very well. Myself, Lobelia and her husband, Master Took and Master Brandybuck will be witnesses."

***

When they enter the wagon - a spacious construct, granted by the elves of Rivendell after their original carriage had not made it across the Misty Mountains - Kili hears his guests gasp.

"Dear me, what on earth did you do to him?" asks Lobelia out loud, and Kili barely manages to suppress a flinch.

At the same time he feels like shouting in triumph, because Bilbo turns his head and actually looks at Lobelia. It doesn't change that to the other hobbit, the proper, well-fed gentle hobbit that left them has been replaces by a pale, thin thing draped in foreign, luxurious clothes.

"I would like to know, too," says the Thain.

Kili wonders if that may become a requirement, but apparently at least the Thain is capable of reading the dread he attempts to hide. Before Kili can say anything, he holds up a hand.

"I do believe I speak for all of us, that there is no doubt Bilbo Baggins is alive, and as such has claim to the property of Bag End," he says and it is telling how much Bilbo's condition has shocked them that Lobelia doesn't even protest, "Everything else is mere curiosity, and there is no need for you to indulge us. For now I believe you have had a long journey, and a long tale can very well be told at another occasion.”

“And what do we do now?” Lotho Baggins wonders out loud.

“There is an empty property near the Hobbiton river,” the old Took says thoughtfully, “It’s about the same size as Bag End I should think.”

“That is an expensive location,” Lotho protests before Lobelia can get a word in.

Kili, draws himself up to his full height and hopes he looks as majestic as his uncle does. And that the light catches the diamonds woven into his fur cape. “That should not be a problem,” he says. Restoring Bilbo’s home – (when, looking back, it is painfully clear just how attached Bilbo has been) – is worth any price. And with the riches of Erebor behind him, Kili doubts the hobbits will be capable of charging a price too steep to pay.

Both Lobelia and the Thain look at him with thinly veiled skepticism.

“Moving will take time,” says Lobelia, “We need to organize helpers – and it’s quite a distance to Hobbiton.”

“Ah, well, I believe I can arrange that as well,” says Kili and gestures to his entourage. (And hopes his fellow dwarves won’t begrudge him for so misusing their services.)

***

Later on, when the dwarven host is practicing their skills as movement helpers, Lobelia and Otho have been successfully relocated and Bifur, Bofur and Kili busy themselves with trying to rearrange Bag End in the way it was, Bofur turns to Kili.

"I liked how you handled that," he says with a wide smile.

Kili shrugs. Diplomacy has never been his strongest suit, but apparently gold coin solves problems just as well.   

The sun is setting – painting the sky over the Shire in amazing shades of red, orange, violet and blue (and Kili has to admit he has seen few comparable sunsets, and perhaps the sky with its spectacles is one of the thing he has missed most in Erebor) – when there is a knock on the front door.

Bofur opens to reveal a flustered hobbit; this one is on the tall side, rotund, and his clothes slightly mud-stained. He seems nervous and ready to bolt.

“I’m … ‘m sorry, but I heard Master Baggins returned?” he stutters, hands worrying his shirt, “C-could I see him?”

Bofur smiles, but his expression is as hard as granite. “Master Baggins has indeed returned, however he is currently unable to receive any visitors.”

Bofur is just about to close the door when the hobbit steps forward. “Please,” he says, “I’m Hamfast Gamgee. I’m…”

Bofur’s expression softens. “Even if you’re a friend…”

“I’m only his gardener,” says Hamfast, “But I … I was really worried. And everybody’s saying how, well, I won’t repeat what everybody’s saying because it’s just talk, but I’m worried, and I just…”

Bifur interrupt with a few sharp words in Khuzdul. Bofur tilts his head and eventually Kili shrugs. “Well, let’s give it a try.”

So Bofur opens the door and gestures for Hamfast to come inside. “We’d appreciate your discretion,” he explains as he leads Hamfast through the smial, “Master Baggins is unwell – a sickness of the mind, both our and the elven healers judged, and while there is no known remedy, we’re hoping familiar surroundings will help him recover.”

Hamfast nods, clearly uncomfortable among the dwarves. Bofur leads him through the familiar corridors of Bag End and stops before the door to Bilbo’s bedroom.

“Through here,” he says, “If you need anything, call.”

And then lets Hamfast step past him, and close the door. It does, Bofur thinks while he waits, say a lot about Bilbo that he adjusted so fast to the company of dwarves. Only a few hours in the Shire and he is more than aware of how out of place they are.

Most glances were curious, but Bofur also saw distrust and suspicion.

***

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take long for Bilbo to show first signs of improving. Three days after their arrival Kili wakes to find Bilbo standing in his sitting room, gazing out into the garden. He doesn’t react when Kili calls him, but a soft spark has returned to his eyes.

The letter Kili sends home to Thorin when he dispatches half of his host (there’s no need for so many guards in a peaceful place like the Shire, no matter how important both Kili and Bilbo are to Thorin) is hopeful. A week later Bofur has finally managed to retrieve the majority of Bilbo’s former possessions (Erebor’s gold has been curiously helpful, though all parties had soon found out that neither did the dwarves possess an adequate idea of Shire pricing, nor did the Hobbits accurately estimate the value of gold coins or gemstones.

There had been a particular incident where Bofur had attempted to trade a large bucket of strawberries for two rubies. With strawberries being a rarity back at Erebor he’d found the price decent. The hobbit in question had been utterly flabbergasted – the same Bofur had been once Hamfast Gamgee had taken it upon himself to introduce the dwarves to the Shire’s strawberry fields.

Hamfast has been stopping by regularly. And it helps, because apparently his gardener’s voice reaches Bilbo where everyone else has failed.

***

Three weeks in, Bilbo walks out of his bedroom on his own. He still isn’t speaking, but he reacts when addressed, now. His eyes are not so horribly empty any longer, and his pallor is returning.

Kili dutifully pens letters, even though he knows they’ll take months to reach Erebor.

Some of the hobbits get used to them. Lobelia shows up from time to time for reasons nobody understands. One time she even sits across from Bilbo – who’s unresponsive, yet not exactly looking past her – and loudly scolds him for doing something so disrespectable as going onto an adventure.

And in the company of dwarves. Didn’t he think what that had done to his reputation? Does he want everybody to think he’s crazy? And his poor, poor family.

Once she’s said her part she turns to the dwarves (who have been watching in a sort of terrified petrification).

“And you,” she tells Kili, “What did you think you were doing? Dragging my relative of to this insane adventure of yours! Disgraceful. And the state you returned him in – don’t you have any shame?”

Lobelia is out of the door before Kili can even think about opening his mouth. Bilbo expression, he finds to his surprise, is rather disgruntled.

He wishes Thorin was here to see Bilbo’s progress. He remembers is uncle’s face on the day they left far too well. There was grief there, and guilt. Kili never asked for the details, though he understands that somehow Thorin did cause Bilbo’s condition.

But if Bilbo is recovering, Thorin may as well.

***

And then, after two month in the Shire, Kili walks into the kitchen to find Bilbo standing there, a cup of tea in his hand, looking out of the window. When he hears Kili, he turns and smiles.

“Good morning.”

For a second, Kili is frozen. Then he throws his arms around Bilbo. The hobbit stiffens first, but then he relaxes into the embrace, until, eventually, he claps Kili on the back.

“Bilbo,” he mutters into the hobbit’s locks. The body under his hands feels familiar again – not as thin and frail as before – and there’re no words to describe what Kili is feeling right now.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo tells him with a chuckle.

That’s when Kili realizes he’s crying.

***

From then on Bilbo’s recovery goes even faster. At first he gets out of breath soon, can’t walk far, and is nervous around strangers. The worst is an episode where Bilbo barely speaks for three days, though that passes once the weather clears, too.

Hamfast is a constant companion, and Bilbo’s relatives drop in, too. Bofur and Kili both despair at remembering who is who – there are just too many cousins and cousins-in-law to keep them sorted. But it’s good to see Bilbo among his family, no matter how much he complains about his annoying relatives afterwards.

So when eventually the letter comes requesting Kili to return to Erebor, he can leave with a lighter heart.

***

Thorin’s recovery does take longer. Ruling a kingdom is no easy task, even though Fili takes over more and more duties as time passes.  Kili, too, once he returns with the best news Thorin has heard since a long time.

His heart grows lighter, but he still misses Bilbo.

Ten years pass in the blink of an eye. His nephews grow into their roles, though Thorin’s heart keeps aching. The nights pass slow, filled with guilt and regret, while the days race past. A rumor rises, the wind brings ill news from the south.

Moria is won, and lost precious few years later. Thorin spends an evening staring after the setting sun toward the west. The plain has turned green, the lake glitters, and the Misty Mountains are not visible today.

Somewhere there are now the bodies of three of his company. He remembers Balin cautioning him, Oin’s firm hand patching more than one wound, and Ori’s shy smile. All is lost.

Evil stirs in Mordor, and Erebor may be distant, yet they, too, notice the shifting of the tides. Shadows lengthen, the air grows tense. His heart aches with memories of unfulfilled promises and regrets. So many times he did not thank Balin, so many things he would have said to Ori…

And so many things he would say to Bilbo.

Hobbits do not live as long as dwarves do, Thorin knows that. And he also knows that he is probably too late when he decides to abdicate, not caring how unsettling this decision is to the kingdoms. But the world around them is changing, and if he steps back rather than wait for death to claim him, it does not feel wrong.

And one day when the sky is bright and cloudless, and the air is warm he takes up his old cloak and leaves Erebor.

***

Thorin does not make it to the Shire. Neither does Bilbo reach Erebor.

Their paths cross at Rivendell, and age has rendered Bilbo’s hair white and Thorin’s silver. Age has also softened the grudge Thorin bore the elves – now that his joints have begun to ache he appreciates the soft pillows and gentle climate. Bilbo’s eyes hold their old sparkle, and when they find Thorin’s, time has healed much. And whatever wariness remains vanishes after Thorin spends their first evening together explaining and apologizing.

Not asking for forgiveness, though, because he does not think what he did can be forgiven. He has wronged Bilbo too much already, to ask him to let the grievances caused to him by Thorin be cast aside. Years of contemplation and study have taught him much, about both, the ailment that beset him and the harm he caused.

Bilbo shrugs. He does not say he forgives Thorin, but it is a long time past. And now, with Sauron regaining his strength and his own nephew on the way to Mordor, Bilbo allows that he does not mind Thorin’s company.

And while Thorin still deeply regrets that he let his mind become twisted, he is relieved to find Bilbo has regained his smile. It’s not forgiveness that has healed what Thorin did, but the sun, the tranquility of the Shire and a nephew. Not all is well, for the first time he reaches to touch Bilbo the hobbit flinches, although he allows the touch moments later with a grin.

“Had things been different,” Bilbo says one night when all around them the world seems to darken, “I would have spent my whole life with you. But I suppose it’s alright, now, too. To spend whatever remains together…”

Thorin takes Bilbo’s wrinkled hand into his, though his stiff joints protest the movement. It feels like coming home. He may not be able to undo what was done. They may not be able to recover what was lost. But there is one promise he can still give.

“Until the very end.”

_Fin_


	14. The Masterpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark!Dollmaker!Bofur. Who discovers that Bilbo is everything he has wanted for to shape his masterpiece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Syxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syxx/pseuds/Syxx) \- who left me many lovely prompts, this one among them. (though I do tend to write sideways). ^^
> 
> !!! [dutch-artist](http://durch-artist.tumblr.com/) turned this into [a comic. And it's awesome - see for yourself!](http://durch-artist.tumblr.com/post/108002910139/the-masterpiece-by-paranoid-fridge-okay-so-after)

Miners and toymakers – Bofur’s family is not one of noble blood or profession, but he is skilled in his craft. He is skilled at mining, too, but he has found that there is magic in toymaking. Especially in crafting dolls.

This has long kept his family alive. Nobles are willing to pay much for stunningly beautiful dolls, and Bofur can honestly say none of his creations has ever disappointed. Though, to himself, they miss a certain spark. Even if he works the finest gemstones, those eyes never twinkle with true life.

And that is when he realizes that there is another way to go about it.

***

When he first lays eyes on Bilbo Baggins, his heart skips a beat. Curls that shine in hues of copper and gold, sparkling green eyes and a smooth, pale face – he has seen dolls uglier than this sold at enormous prices on the markets down south. A doll version of this hobbit, now, he could sell for a fortune.

And he finds that he likes Bilbo, too, flustered and fussy as he is that first evening. There is a kindness to him in that he grumbles as his pantry is pillaged, yet still tells Bombur where the spices are. Whatever courage Gandalf sees in him, Bofur does not (yet, he is willing to wait and observe), but he finds innocent curiosity and honest sympathy in Bilbo’s face once the hobbit learns of their intentions.

This, frozen for eternity, may be perfection.

***

During their journey across Middle Earth there is not much time to indulge artistic impulses. Bofur stays close to Bilbo, befriends him and makes sure he does not get harmed – it wouldn’t do for what might be Bofur’s ultimate masterpiece to lose an ear or sustain ugly scars.

He catches Bifur eyeing him warily whenever he reaches out to tousle Bilbo’s hair– his cousin knows how Bofur paid the bills, is much sharper than anybody suspects, and much less easily distracted than Bombur. Bifur is fond of Bilbo, and would probably protest if he knew the images Bofur conjures every night before he falls asleep.

Nobody else suspects a thing.

To Bilbo, Bofur is a good friend that watches out for him – who frets when he falls, protects him in skirmishes and makes sure he receives enough food. And perhaps Bilbo is a friend to Bofur, too – an important person, at least. One that, Bofur thinks, he will never put up for sale once he has completed his masterpiece.

For now, though, he makes sure the doll-to-be does not get damaged.

***

“We got new clothes from the Master,” Bofur tells Bilbo the moment the hobbit emerges from his bedroom, “Here, try this.”

And with that he hands Bilbo the selection he picked himself. It is not what he would have chosen – dolls are supposed to dress finer, in clothes better fitted to their bodies – but beggars can’t be choosers, and this way Bofur can at least sway Bilbo from picking one of the more drab pieces.

Moments later, Bilbo reemerges, tugging uncomfortably at sleeves that hang past his fingertips. “I don’t think it fits,” he says.

It looks lovely, already. Bofur aches to use the potential he sees, and sweet Bilbo has no idea. Bright colors suit the hobbit, though Bofur could also imagine using some pastels. The clothes provided, though, favor shades of brown and grey rather more, much to his silent disappointment.

He’ll need brighter colors for his masterpiece – he will have to design an entire wardrobe. Bilbo, he thinks as the hobbit withdraws to try on another set of clothes, might also look good in white – something light and innocent, dotted with diamonds. Or maybe black, solemn and tight – which would emphasize Bilbo’s lovely face as the sole spot of color.

“This doesn’t feel right either,” Bilbo announces as he, once more, emerges. The heavy lilac robe swings around his feet – it looks like something that could be worn at court, Bofur thinks, though the fabric will not be good for travel.

“The color isn’t too bad, though,” he tells Bilbo.

“Better than that lavender thing,” Bilbo agrees with a shudder.

“That made you look rather pale,” Bofur says. It didn’t look bad, though, and once his masterpiece has been completed, he may revisit that color.

***

Among Erebor’s treasure Bofur finds the materials he has always dreamt to work with. Jewels in all shapes and colors; diadems and necklaces, crowns and bracelets. Belts studded with rubies, cloth spun from golden thread. Earing made from mithril and rings of pure diamond.

And not only treasure survived, but, as Bifur is delighted to discover, so did festive garments, robes and fabrics. Velvets in all colors imaginable, the finest furs he has ever touched, heavy coats made from brocade, light, silken dresses – and fabrics in the most breathtaking patterns imaginable. Some decorated with gemstones – sparkling sapphires and emeralds – others spun from golden thread.

To his dismay, Bilbo is the only one of them who looks at the treasure and turns away with a shrug. While Fili, Kili and Ori wrap themselves in fine fabrics, the hobbit is happy in his second-hand coat.

***

The Arkenstone remains amiss, but two armies come to their reclaimed mountain. Bilbo is constantly worried, and Bofur thoughtfully toys with the vial in his pocket. This liquid is not easy to obtain (Nori has helped him in Laketown) – usually those that ordered dolls to be made procured it for him.

Bofur is rather familiar with its usage. Knows how it renders the doll-to-be relaxed and pliant, conscious but out of control.

It might actually help their hobbit, who is increasingly nervous and at odds with their king.

***

“I will not have you gainsay me,” Thorin thunders, and Bilbo shrinks back, “You have done your part, burglar – we dwarves know how to run our kingdoms.”

Bilbo, though, is scared and desperate, “Then you will die!” he shouts, “We are, what, fourteen? And there are two armies camped out there, how can you…”

“Enough!” Thorin shouts, “I did not ask for your advice – you will watch quietly and not interfere.”

“But I…”

“Bofur,” Thorin calls out, “Make sure Master Baggins sits and watches.”

And this is everything Bofur has ever waited for.

“What?” Bilbo’s head whips around. His eyes are large, fearful – the innocence that lurks there is calling out to Bofur, who can’t quite help his lips from forming a smile. It has been too long – and the hobbit too tempting.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Bilbo cheerfully, and rummages in his pockets for the small bottle with Nori’s elixir, “Nothing bad – trust me.”

Bilbo looks at the dwarves like a frightened animal and seems unwilling to trust any of them.

“Dwalin,” Bofur calls out, “Lend me a hand?”

A choked noise escapes from Bilbo’s throat, and he ducks, trying to dodge Dwalin’s hands, but stumbles on the gold and is just a tad too slow. A large arm wraps around his torso and lifts the hobbit clear off his feet. Bilbo kicks out and yells, but Bofur hums under his breath and steps closer.

He uncorks the vial. “It’s harmless,” he tells Bilbo, “You don’t need to be afraid.”

The hobbit twists his head away, mouth abruptly shut.

Bofur has had too many try to resist him, and now he has Dwalin to help as well. It doesn’t take much strength – a hand in his hair is all, really – to fix Bilbo’s head in place, and with a sigh Bofur clamps a hand down on Bilbo’s nose.

The need to breathe will have Bilbo open his mouth in moments, especially with how he still tries to twist in Dwalin’s hold. It does not take long, and Bofur is nice enough to let the hobbit take in a huge gulp of air before he empties the vial into Bilbo’s mouth.

After that they only have to wait for the hobbit to grow sluggish, and eventually, for his movements to cease altogether.

“Will you be alright on your own?” Dwalin asks as he rests Bilbo’s body on the gold piles.

Bofur nods – he hasn’t even realized that most of their company has left the treasury. It doesn’t make him unhappy – what comes next is rather intimate, and he thinks their hobbit will be glad to have as few spectators as possible.

Though from the frightened, yet defiant gleam of Bilbo’s eyes, Bofur doesn’t expect the hobbit to trust them again. Not if they all, as Bofur is aware, know what will be done to him.

But that doesn’t matter. Unless somebody has a dramatic change of heart, Bilbo’s fate has been sealed, and Bofur’s wish granted.

“Just relax,” he tells Bilbo, “This won’t hurt. And you never need to worry about a thing again.”

The expression in Bilbo’s eyes tells him this outlook scares him more than anything. Bofur laughs to himself – the hobbit has no reason to fear anything. Once Bofur has done his work, he will be a doll so exquisite not even Azog would harm him. All he ever has to do is sit quietly and look beautiful.

***

Bofur recalls the steps as if it was yesterday that he last made one of his prized living dolls. After the elixir has worked, the body is to be cleaned. The elixir renders the doll to be relaxed, and – for about an hour, also unconscious, so this is a best time for the more invasive tasks.

After that, Bofur sets out to dress the doll. With Bilbo, he has already picked out some garments from the surviving finery before Thorin’s order came. The first layer is a robe woven of golden thread. He has to make a number of adjustments – cinch it in the waist, and narrow it around the arms. Their hobbit has rather lost weight, so it does not need much fabric to cover him completely.

It will drag on the ground, but that is a detail Bofur has always found rather charming – this also applies to the too long sleeves from which only Bilbo’s fingertips peek out.

For the outer robe Bofur eventually settles on a deep emerald green robe. He was rather torn – Bilbo himself has worn blue and red, and both suit him. In the end, the fact that the green fabric brings out the color of Bilbo’s eyes is what decides Bofur.

Gold and emerald is a rare combination in jewelry – emeralds are more commonly used in conjunction with silver or mithril – but this suits Bilbo. Silver would make him too pale, and gold matches the way his hair shines in the light of the treasury.

Tugging on this robe is not difficult, though Bofur pays extra attention when he closes the ties in the back – the outer robe is supposed to fit tightly, but it is a sturdy fabric, and with Bilbo unable to voice any protest, Bofur needs to check his strength.

It wouldn’t do for this doll to lose its spark before completion.

Bilbo head lolls against his shoulder. That is another of the disadvantages of the elixir – pliant bodies are without strength, and Bofur has to be clever if he wants to arrange his dolls in certain positions.

But this is not the first time he does it. High-standing collars, strengthened with pieces of metal, do the job of holding the head upright. A sole piece of metal underneath the chin – and here Bofur chooses something inconspicuous – makes certain, Bilbo’s head stays up. And again, he has to watch out not to fasten the fixtures on too tight.

When he checks, the hobbit’s heartbeat is fast – which is, as Bofur knows, one consequence of the elixir. His breathing though, is normal, if a bit shallow – his expression relaxed, yet in Bilbo’s eyes, Bofur sees fear and confusion and a desperate sort of resignation. He frowns, because he wants this doll to have the spark he saw in Bilbo’s eyes when he ran after them or fought for them.

It’s a matter he may have to revisit later. For now, Bofur is done with the most basic clothes and sets out to add the fine touches.

One of the first thing he does is add jewels in Bilbo’s hair. Strings of diamonds and gold that catch the light and only emphasize the silky curls on the hobbit’s head. Some he only attaches loosely, others he works deeply into the hair – so that they may hold and also carry the weight of additional decorations.

Bofur adds a few golden strings that dangle loosely. Emeralds weight down the ends – and Bofur leans back with a satisfied smile. The decoration looks light, fragile – and he thinks by now Bilbo may be glad for the contraption keeping his head straight, for Bofur knows that those gems are heavy.

Next he adds bracelets. He chooses sturdy once, made from gold, and rather broad. For those, he prefers patterns to gemstones, with the exception of one gold band wide enough to fit around Bilbo’s bicep. This one is decorated with a row of sea green emeralds, and delivers to the outfit a certain asymmetry that Bofur finds rather pleasant.

The bracelets, too, may have to serve a practical purpose should Thorin desire to affix his doll to something – Bofur does imagine one of the smaller thrones may suit that occasion. And with the detailed metalwork decorating those, fixing a hand to an armrest through a short gold chain should not be much of a problem.

Two anklets are attached for the same purpose – most of the time, though, they will be hidden under the long robe.

He would prefer to add more rings, and maybe some of the more complicated finger decorations (gloves from fine chains), but Bilbo’s hands are too small and only the rings that belonged to children will fit. Perhaps once they’ve reopened the forges, Bofur can procure something better suited. For now, the rings will add some color, so he decides on rubies and sapphires.

When Bofur looks up, he finds Bilbo watching him with tears in his eyes. His body may not be able to tremble, but the hobbit’s eyes speak of fear and confusion and heartbreak.

Bofur carefully pats his shoulder. “Don’t be scared,” he tells Bilbo gently, “Everything will be just fine.”

Bilbo, however, does not seem to believe him.

***

When he is done, Bofur knows everything he ever suspected during this quest has been right. Bilbo is his masterpiece, the one doll that is more beautiful than all the others. The hobbit looks resplendent in the rich garments, yet still delicate and soft.

His skin is paler than ever, his lips a shade of red – Bofur helped those along. But what makes this doll so much more beautiful are the eyes. Green and sparkling, and even if despair is the reason, Bofur does not complain.

Neither does Thorin.

The king wanders into the treasury and sees Bofur’s masterpiece artfully seated among piles of gold and priceless treasures. He draws in an audible breath, and Bofur can’t help the satisfied smile on his face.

“How suiting,” Thorin says eventually, “That the one who stole my greatest treasure shall also replace it.”

_Fin_


	15. All must die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half of the company dies in the Thunder Battle, and the other half must deal with it and continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the kinkmeme: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19167501
> 
> Warnings: Blood, gore, angst, character death (everybody is dead in the end).   
> AN: The response to this little one shots is amazing - thank you all so much! (And feel free to point out mistakes. I'm no native speaker, so mistakes are not always typos).

“Take my hand, take my hand! FILIIII!” the scream escapes, even as Kili watches his brother being torn away. Thunder drowns out his voice, rain beats into his face and the wind whips soaked strands of his hair into his face while he stares with wide eyes at now empty air.

The giant has moved, and he can’t even see his brother anymore.

And this has to be a nightmare –

“Kili!” Thorin shouts, and belatedly he stumbles backwards, not even paying attention to the narrow path behind him.  A firm hand grabs hold of his arm and drags him backwards, just in time to escape a new avalanche raining down from above.

Somebody’s shouting, but all he hears is the desperate pounding of his heart. This can’t be happening, he thinks, he’ll wake up and Fili will right beside him, and then they will –

“Move!” Balin shouts and he is pulled along, barely managing to put one foot in front of the other.

An explosion of rock sounds from above and Kili twists around – and sees only the dark gargantuan shapes of the giants battling. It doesn’t feel as if it could be happening, and he can’t see his brother or any of the others, and there’s water in his eyes and his vision blurs.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t slip. Bifur drags him further, always forward over the ledge, and there are three giants and they’re missing half of their company, and Kili is practically deaf –

And then one of the giants begins to fall. It’s close, too close, and Thorin halts them, but not only because it’s close but also because Kili sees those six figures, desperately clinging onto the giant’s knee, yet helpless to stop gravity.

If he screams, the sound is lost in the roar around him.

***

The moment the ground stops shaking, Thorin pushes forward. Stone crumbles under his feet, the wind keeps howling and threatens to throw him off the mountain, but Thorin doesn’t even pay attention to the forces of nature raging around him.

His heart has practically stopped, and he does not dare to breathe before he knows.

Knows what has become of his company.

His friends.

His nephew.

He knows the dwarves behind him share his fears, but he can’t look back now. For a moment, he cannot be their leader – first, he must know. 

So he stumbles around the corner, shakes hair out of his face – and then stops abruptly.

The world falls silent.

Before him is a niche, really, and it would be a blessing otherwise. However, this niche is covered in loose stone, water, and the unmistakable shapes of still and silent bodies. Thorin does not hear anything over the roaring of his blood.

All he knows it that these are his dwarves. And they aren’t moving.

“What is…” somebody calls from the back, and someone else is shoved into Thorin. The others don’t know yet, he thinks for a split second, then he stumbles forward and the others follow.

A soft gasp from Balin’s lips. A curse from Oin, a shout from Gloin –

“ORI! NO!” Dori pushes past them all, not caring for his own safety. Nori follows on his heels, his face white and drawn, fists clenched in his pockets. For a moment they all are frozen as Dori sinks down on the other side of a rock pile, and frantically shoves aside pieces of dust and rubble.

The body Dori draws to his chest moments later is still and pale. Only the glistening red of fresh blood covering half of his face gives him a touch of color.

The conclusion is inevitable.

Thorin turns away as Dori clutches his little brother into a fierce embrace, and Nori stands by, pale and helpless. He doesn’t dare to think beyond the obvious. Not yet.

“Fili,” Kili shouts, right next to his ear, “Fili!”

And Thorin’s heart skips a beat. He looks over the niche, trying to find his nephew – Bombur is right up front, as he isn’t moving, and he won’t (and Thorin can’t look), but he sees no blond hair. His knees are trembling, and from the corner of his eye he sees Balin drop to his knees.

He is about to turn, a terrible premonition in his gut, when Kili abruptly screams his brother’s name and jumps forward. Before Thorin can even reach his side, he has pushed aside a large boulder. It tumbles from the mountain with an earth-shattering explosion, but all Thorin focuses on is Fili’s form, half buried under more rubble, and eerily still.

Kili is at his side at once, drawing his brother into his arms without even clearing away the rubble.

There’s blood on his hair, Thorin realizes. And he is so very, very pale – too pale for one so young, one who’s barely begun living. This … this should not happen to his nephew, not to one who never had a chance to know the glory of their line, to fulfill his destiny.

This can’t …

And then he sees a momentary twitch. It’s weak, but Thorin has good eyes, and his heart abruptly stutters.

“Oin,” he calls, his voice hitching, and then stronger, “OIN! Get over here! He’s still alive!”

***

Bifur is good at blending out his surroundings. He rarely understands what others are saying, so he has learned to ignore all idle chatter.

Dori’s sobs and Kili’s screams are no idle chatter, but for now even those are silenced as he beholds the sight before him. Thorin and the others have skipped past his brothers – Dori and Nori, too, went for family of their own (poor Ori, Bifur thinks, he was so young…), and he can see Balin sit, quietly, next to a large, unmoving form.

And then his eyes are back on his own family, and Bifur has seen enough cruelty to know that what he sees is true, and that fate can be this horrendous. It is … not entirely unexpected, because there had never been much hope in their quest.

The quiet grief in his heart feels like an old friend.

Bifur sits down between Bombur and Bofur. Bombur is on his back, eyes open and staring unseeing into the dark night. A pool of blood is spreading underneath his head, sluggish, and Bifur reaches out to close his eyes. The skin is already cooling.

It must have been quick, he thinks, and it is a relief when Bifur has watched so many die in pain. He would rather it had been him – he is the one who is not quite there, who cannot communicate. But apparently, the fates have decided to spare him a little longer – whether it is to torture him, he does not know.

Bofur’s face is peaceful. Bifur, who remembers his cousin’s expressions when he was asleep, finds his lips twitch – trust Bofur to look peaceful only in death; in sleep he’d always been pulling disturbing grimaces.  Bifur can’t quite tell what killed him – there’s no pooling blood, nor is he missing parts of his body (and to Bifur that is good already) – but there is no denying that his last remaining family has passed on.

“Good for them,” Bifur thinks, and then gathers one hand of each cousin in his own.

There isn’t much he can do for them. But he will sit here and hold their hands until they have gone completely cold.

***

The world is cold and dark when Bilbo comes to. Wetness covers his face and his body is strangely numb. Icy water splatters against his face, so apparently it still is raining. He wonders how much time has passed – his memories are blurry, but the terror is still in his veins.

Underneath it all, he feels wrong. He doesn’t dare to move – for now he isn’t hurting, and that probably is a good thing. Over the howling of the wind he can hear voices and movement – it takes a moment to make sense, but then it clicks.

The dwarves – and they are calling for Oin and Fili. Bilbo wonders what happened to them, because there’s an edge of desperation to their voices. And anyhow, what happened to the others, and why are they still outside?

He tries to blink – but his eyes refuse to open.

It’s not surprising, though, considering how damaged he feels.

“…. His leg,” Oin yells over the storm. It appears to be raining less, now, though that might just be Bilbo’s impression.

“…ribs?” Thorin sounds strangely anxious.

“Might be broken,” Oin’s voice is strained, “I can’t tell like … though he may ….”

Something clatters to the ground, and Bilbo realizes that the faint, choked noise has been coming from elsewhere. It’s a voice, one he knows and…

Dori is crying. Why would he …

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. Ori was on the giant with him, clinging to Bofur and screaming for his life, like they all had. But Bilbo was alive, so Ori ought to be here too. Maybe they just hadn’t found him, maybe they’d just discovered them now …

But Dori is crying and Nori is silent and they aren’t searching for anybody.

“We need to get him out of the rain!” Oin shouts, interrupting Bilbo’s horrifying conclusion (he’s glad to abandon it. Mayhaps he’ll wake to find it all a hallucination and himself back in his armchair in the Shire).

“I’ll go and…” Kili. He sounds brittle, desperate.

“You’ll stay,” Thorin growls, his voice echoing the wind’s icy howling, “I…”

“No lads,” and that would be Balin. Who sounds terribly sad and grieved, and Bilbo feels fear spark in his chest (which is in pain and feels so, so wrong), “You stay with him. Gloin and I will go and we…”

For a moment, the rain drowns out what he says.

Bilbo thinks he may have passed out, for the voices seem more distant now, and the air feels cooler. He needs to move from here if he doesn’t want to catch his death, or at least a bad cold; needs to move now, no matter how lethargic he feels.

Yet, like his eyelids, his body refuses to obey.

***

Kili is shaking so badly he’s been banned from carrying his brother. The makeshift stretcher Oin pieced together from coats and weapons now is being held up by Gloin and Nori; Kili and Thorin walking beside it.

Fili remains still and deeply unconscious.

And Oin’s prognosis did not sound good.

Kili feels faint, disconnected. Everything around him seems to a dream, and he only wants to wake up. He hasn’t yet dared to look too close. But he has seen Dori break down, and Bifur sitting there with his back to all of them –

“Here’s a cave,” Balin, now in front, pronounces, and luckily, it is not far.

And yet it’s bitter to have been so close to safety when the unthinkable happened. Kili drops down next to his brother the moment the stretcher is set down, clutching his brother’s hand as if he could infuse some of his own energy through it.

Oin mutters next to him, peeling aside Fili’s soaked clothes and revealing a chest that is black and blue, and Thorin sucks in a sharp breath.

Kili’s heart stutters to a stop.

Is this …

And then Oin tells him and Thorin to step back and let him work. Kili, at first, fails to react, but Thorin forces him up and away, even while Kili’s eyes remain glued to his brother’s motionless body. There’s blood covering his hair and torso, and his face is too white and he doesn’t want this to be the last time, can’t dare to think –

***

The voices of his companions have disappeared.

Icy rain continues to assault his face, but he isn’t truly cold. Bilbo can tell, though, that ought to be freezing – the ground under his back is, and he thinks once night falls the rain will turn into snow. He might miss the calming patter –

His last company after the dwarves left him.

There is a deep ache in his chest that thrums with every breath he draws. The dwarves are gone, and all he has for company is cold rock and rain – and he does not think he will move from this spot ever again. His body is completely immobile – he did not even have a chance to call after the dwarves.

Strangely enough, though, he is not afraid.

He would like to know what happened to his companions. They may not have cared about him, but he remembers clinging to Bofur, Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder – and he hopes they survived and left with the others.

(Though there is a strange note in the dwarves’ voices that lets him know that not all survived. And that some came to great harm).

And perhaps they have not abandoned him – perhaps they just didn’t see him. But, Bilbo thinks with a spark of self-depreciating humor, this is not a time to start lying to himself. To Thorin Oakenshield he has ever been little more than a burden – he can understand why the dwarf chose to move on without him.

Especially since he can’t move under his own power.

So even if they left him for dead, Bilbo does not feel upset or angry. He is strangely numb, but it is no bad feeling. And rain and rocks are no bad company for his last hours – maybe preferable to a group of dwarves he never truly belonged with. 

***

“We should burn the dead,” Balin says, softly, “We cannot take their bodies, and I would not leave them here.”

He does not add anything about wild animals and plunderers, but they all know what happens to those left for dead in the wild. They have been travelling for too long, Nori thinks, and with a sharp pang realizes that his little brother now will never have a chance of living a safe, settled life.

It leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he almost wants to exclaim that he and Dori will certainly carry Ori’s body all the way to Erebor – but Nori has always been pragmatic, and Balin’s suggestion is sensible.

Dori only hugs the body closer. They’ve wiped away the blood and the dirt, and now Ori truly looks as if he was sleeping. Nori knows this, because he likes to visit at night, and he enjoys seeing Ori sleep the carefree sleep of the innocent – it makes doing what he does easier.

But that is now gone.

Forever.

Nori is familiar with death, but he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the tears from falling.

***

His baby brother is rather heavy, Balin admits with a huff. Or perhaps he just is not strong enough – it does not matter. In the time span Bifur has carried both his cousins to their cave, he has barely managed to take Dwalin half the way.

He could drag him by his feet – Balin recalls actually doing this an eternity ago when they both were still dwarflings and Dwalin had been annoying him – and he is certain Dwalin would be willing to forgive the indignity – but he forces himself to gather his remaining strength.

And in a way this is good. The exhaustion is a distraction – one that does not allow him to think too deeply about loss and bygone times. That after so many close calls, death has finally claimed his brother.

As much as he knows he must keep his composure, he cannot deny the sting in his eyes.

“Let me help you,” a familiar voice says behind him, and Balin is so surprised he almost drops his brother’s body. When he turns, he finds Thorin looking at him – and their king’s eyes are deeply grieved, and Balin recalls Fili’s limp body and Kili crying.

“Shouldn’t you be with your nephew?” Balin asks, softly.

Thorin purses his lips. “Oin and Kili are with him,” he sighs, “And Dwalin was my brother, too.”

Balin closes his eyes, fighting tears and memories. Both, Thorin and he, do recall those simpler times, when they played with toy swords, swore to become heroes and nobody even dreamt of dragons. Now, all those childhood dreams have further crumbled.

One more of their companions is gone, and Balin eventually nods.

Together, Thorin and he carry Dwalin’s body inside.

***

They have arranged the bodies at the far wall. Once Oin has finished working on Fili, and they all have said their goodbyes, Thorin will set fire to the cloaks that cover their dead. It is not as grand as a dwarven funeral should be, and burning is only a paltry replacement for a stone tomb, but they cannot do any better.

Should they retake Erebor Thorin vows he will erect a memorial for every dwarf that died on the quest.

And then, suddenly, there’s a commotion behind him.

He turns, just in time to see Bifur, soaked and clutching a bundle to his chest, stumble into their cave. From behind him, Balin exclaims “Bilbo!” and a sudden, hot spike of guilt races through Thorin. Until now he had completely forgotten about their burglar.

***

Oin barely looks up from his work when behind him the company breaks out into exclamations. Fili’s breath is shallow, and time is slipping away from them. His options are limited, but Oin is relatively certain that there is a rib puncturing the young prince’s lung.

Most of his ribs are broken, so it is a miracle he yet lives. Oin thinks his legs may be broken, too, but he hasn’t truly looked at them beyond making sure there were no heavily bleeding injuries. The dwarf’s chest is where this battle will be fought.

And Oin, with a frown, knows that it will be close. He needs to remove that piece of rib, preferably without disturbing the other fragments too…

“He’s alive!” Gloin shouts and Oin glances over his shoulder. Kili, too, looks up as hasty footsteps draw near, and Bifur sinks to his knees, careful not to disturb his precious bundle too much.

The hobbit’s face is ashen, his lips tinted blue. He’s been out in the cold for too long, Oin thinks – Bilbo is not even trembling anymore. Bifur mutters something in Khuzdul that is too low for Oin to catch, but his expression is unmistakable.

With a sigh, Oin looks – not long, though, for behind him Fili’s life is slowly slipping away.

Not that their burglar is any better. Even without seeing the damage, Oin can tell that he must have broken several ribs, and his left foot is so badly crushed it will need to be amputated. 

Oin swallows. “I can only treat one of them,” he tells the group, “And I can’t save either. We will need to go back to Rivendell.”

Thorin immediately inclines his head. “We will.”

Nobody says a word, but Oin can feel the tension rise. Thorin does not look at him, his gaze once again drawn to his nephew. Kili is clutching Fili’s hand tightly, his face anxious.

Balin is the one who sighs. “Treat Fili,” he says, “We will make Master Baggins comfortable.”

Thorin does not protest.

Why would he, Oin thinks to himself as he turns back to Fili on whose chest black and blue bruises blossom, why would he when he has to choose between his nephew and a stranger. When none of them would have expected a different outcome, even if the injured party had been one other dwarf.

It’s understandable, and yet it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

***

Without a word, Bifur tugs his own worn coat tighter around Bilbo and rises. He walks over to where Gloin has gotten a fire started and sits down, gently arranging the hobbit in his lap. In his arms he appears fragile and childlike – and Bifur thinks he should never have come.

Balin sinks down next to him.

“What a terrible night,” he mutters in Khuzdul, and when Bifur glances over, Balin seems to have aged a century.

Bifur simply nods and strokes a hand through Bilbo’s curls. They are soft, like the hobbit’s skin, and Bifur is rather reminded of another time, when he also tried his best to comfort those dying. And yet, there is a difference between seeing a warrior succumb to his wounds and seeing an innocent bystander felled by something they had no hand in.

His cousins, while not warriors, set out on this quest prepared. There was little for them to lose, and Bifur will grieve them in time. Their hobbit, though, joined them for reasons they never cared to learn, kept smiling politely even when faced with Thorin’s temper and has given up a comfortable home – only to now die among a group of dwarves that barely know him.

Dies while their healer fights to save the life of another.

Bifur presses his lips together and wonders if it wasn’t kinder if Bilbo did not wake.

However, at that moment he sees Bilbo’s lashes flutter. He doesn’t hear what Balin says – it all fades into the background din Bifur is used to ignore – and his sole focus is Bilbo’s white face, and the soft groan that comes from the hobbit’s lips.

With baited breath he waits, until, eventually, Bilbo’s eyes are open. They are not glazed – and Bifur’s heart twists. Not only will their burglar die – he will die knowing what is happening, die without a familiar face nearby.

He holds him tighter, but that is a paltry replacement for family and loved ones.

“Ba-“ Bilbo begins, eyes fixed on Balin (who is hunched over with grief), but he can’t call out before he has to cough, chest heaving in response and his entire body trembles in Bifur’s arms. It’s not a coughing fit – two soft, wet sounds – and yet it ends with a thin trickle of blood running from Bilbo’s lips.

Bifur sees Balin close his eyes as if in pain.  “Thorin!” the advisor calls out, “Thorin, come here, just for a moment!”

Bifur runs a hand through Bilbo’s curls and whispers calming words in Khuzdul into the hobbit’s ear. He hopes their tone will tell their meaning – tell Bilbo that he will not pass alone, that he is not without friends, that these dwarves appreciate him, no matter how bad they have been at showing it.

And perhaps it works, because the tremors lessen, and Bilbo glances up to catch Bifur’s eyes. The amount of trust and gratefulness is almost too much.

“I’m sorry,” Bifur mutters in Khuzdul, “It shouldn’t be you. You shouldn’t be … dying out here. We shouldn’t have brought you into this … you should be back in your home, not here. Sorry.”

Bilbo smiles in response, though he couldn’t have understood a word.

“I would apologize as well,” a new voice cuts through, and both Bilbo and Bifur glance over to see Thorin. The King under the Mountain looks pale, haggard, and there is a lot of blood over his clothes that is not his own.

“Though there is no apology for what has occurred. For what it is worth, I regret bringing you into this, Master Baggins.”

Thorin swallows, and for a moment Bifur wonders if that is all he has to say. (He could understand, since a few paces behind them Oin and Kili are fighting desperately to keep Fili alive; but he thinks Bilbo deserves more than just this apology).

Then Bilbo’s lips are moving. “… quite an adventure,” is all that is audible, and a new stream of red runs down his chin. It almost looks as if Bilbo is trying to smile (as if he was telling Thorin that all is well and forgiven, and that damning kindness is far too typical of their burglar and Bifur wants to smash something).

With a shuddering breath Thorin sinks down next to Balin, and takes hold of Bilbo’s hand. It looks like a child’s hand in comparison, small and pale, and from the way Thorin carefully rubs it, Bifur guesses that it is cold.

He himself can feel Bilbo’s heart slowing down.

“Also, I am grateful that you joined my company,” Thorin tells their small burglar, “We would not have made it past the trolls without you, and I hope you know that you … that you are beloved by all of us.”

 

That brings a true smile, shaky and bloody, to Bilbo’s lips.

Yet his eyelids are drooping, and Bifur feels the small body slump against his chest. Thorin senses it, too. He musters a gentle smile and says, “Rest now.”

And the body in his arms stills.

For a moment, they all remain frozen where they are. The body in Bifur’s arms is warm, even though now Bilbo’s eyes are closed and his chest is not rising anymore. Thorin bows his head, and Balin, eventually, sighs.

“He is gone,” he says, and with a nod Thorin carefully lets go of Bilbo’s hand. It’s a caring gesture – the kind they hadn’t bestowed upon their burglar before it was too late.

But there is no time for recriminations.

“Thorin,” Oin calls through the cave, “I need you here.”

***

Kili understands, somewhere in the back of his mind, that their burglar is gone. And he knows he should cry, will cry and mourn when there is time – but for now his eyes are fixed on his brother’s trembling form, and all he can think of is that Fili is they only one of that small group that still lives.

And somehow this scares him more than anything.

Oin is calm and methodical, washing his and Kili’s hands in alcohol, cleaning the blood and grime of Fili’s chest – which is bruises and uneven, and Oin will only say that he can’t be certain of anything right now.

“Hold his head,” Oin tells Kili, and then shouts for Thorin.

With shaking fingers Kili brushes wet strands of hair from Fili’s face. There are cuts on his cheek and forehead, and a large open wound over his ear, blood dripping from both his nose and his mouth, and his expression is twisted, his breath hitching, and Kili wishes he wasn’t in pain.

“Sit on his legs,” Oin tells Thorin, “You two need to make sure he doesn’t move. Not at all.”

The selection of sharp knifes of all sizes lying on the floor next to Oin emphasizes his words. Kili only nods and his fingers dig deeper into Fili’s shoulders. He hopes his brother will forgive finger-shaped bruises (prays he will be alive to be angry at them).

Kili does not dare to look at Oin, because their healer is pale, grim and determined. But it is not the relaxed expression with which Oin sets broken bones or treats colds – this speaks of risks Kili does not want to think about.

Instead he focuses on Fili’s face, even when from the corner of his eye he sees Oin level one of his knifes with a swollen bruise on Fili’s ribcage. The healer’s hands are steady, and Kili prays that all will be well, that all will –

The moment Oin cuts into Fili’s chest, a spray of blood explodes outward, and Fili twitches violently. Kili barely manages to stop him from moving, and he hears Oin curse, and suddenly his palms are sweaty and slippery, and he just wants this to not be happening.

Oin’s movements speed up, and he makes another cut. This one, too, bleeds heavily, but there’s no spray to drench them. Kili does not want to think about what Oin’s actions mean, wishes he wasn’t seeing it from the corner of his eye.

He wishes even more so, when Oin pulls back and inclines his head.

“Oin?” Thorin asks, voice atypically soft.

Their healer sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Kili’s heart stops.

“I thought only one side of his lung was damaged,” Oin says, “But it’s the other side that’s damaged; this side is destroyed. Among a number of major blood vessels…. I’m sorry.”

In disbelief, Kili stares down at his brother’s face. Fili’s expression is – tense, as if in discomfort, and much, much too pale. The blood running from his nose is dark – and Kili recalls hearing that this was no good sign.

When he glances up – perhaps the world will tell him he is having a waking nightmare – it is to see Oin cover the long, now only sluggishly bleeding cut on Fili’s chest with one of their remaining blankets.

“What are you doing?” escapes his mouth, and if his voice is squeaky and panicked, he does not care.

“I can’t do anymore,” Oin replies, “I’m sorry.”

***

The night grows silent. Kili and Thorin take up vigil at Fili’s side, wiping his brow and speaking to him, kind words in gentle voices. Slowly, Fili’s expression relaxes, grows calm and peaceful, until eventually he, too, stops breathing.

Kili is too exhausted to cry out loud, so he huddles into a corner, sobbing silently. Thorin rests a hand on his remaining nephew’s shoulder – the pain, he knows, has not yet set in. The true grief Is yet to come – and then stands and solemnly carries Fili’s body over to the others.

The rest of the company rises.

They are all exhausted, bruised and shell-shocked. Thorin sees tearstains on many faces, and then turns to gaze at the six still bodies laid out against the wall. This is not how he envisioned his quest to go – it is a risk he was aware of, but he had not expected the tides to turn so fast.

Wasn’t it just mere hours ago that they were all grumbling on that steep path up the mountainside? That Ori had commented on the weather, and Dwalin told them that shelter would be difficult to find.

Now Ori lies in the center, wrapped in his brothers’ cloaks. He looks even younger in death, and Thorin wonders if he had not made a mistake allowing him to come.

Bifur, too, has covered his brother’s bodies with their own cloaks and cleaned their faces. It also hides the worst injuries – like this, Thorin thinks, they might be asleep. Only, he knows that Bombur snored loudly and Bofur was prone to sudden movements.

Thorin also notes that their hair ornaments are gone. It is a practical decision; he has to admit, one that he is more familiar with than he wants to be. Nobility is supposed to be buried with treasures, but in the wild, treasure only attracts thieves that care little for the honor of the dead.

Or, as Oin had put it when he had pressed Fili’s hair beads into Thorin’s hand, “Something to remember the lad by. Give them to his brother when the time comes.”

And that is no comfort, not when his nephew should have been buried in a stone tomb with all the comforts owed to one of Durin’s blood. But Thorin cannot grant this, as much as he cannot give any other of these dwarves the funeral they deserve.

Or give comfort to the living.

He knows he will have to watch Kili, knows that he cannot allow himself to grieve as long as his nephew looks ready to fall apart. At least Dori and Nori have each other, but his old friend Balin is left all alone (and he has lost all his family in such tragic ways, Thorin wonders how he is still standing. And Thorin cannot yet think about what he lost with Dwalin).

Bifur stands alone, too, even more so than before. Now it is not only the language that sets him apart, but there is no family to help him out either. And somebody ought to mourn their burglar – who looks very fragile in death, a lone hobbit among dwarves.

None of them deserved to die here.

But there is nothing Thorin can do.

***

Burning the dead is only an emergency option. And yet Balin has seen more funeral pyres than he has seen entombments. It is the curse of their people, he thinks, but he finds that he does not mind it that much anymore.

At least ash cannot be desecrated the way orcs sometimes do with the bodies of the fallen.

And there is a small notion of peace when Gloin starts to hum one of their old songs – one of grief and glory, one that has been chanted at the funeral of many a fallen warrior or king. The words do not mean much tonight, but the melody carries over the flickering flames.

It ties them into a broader scope, includes those that fell tonight into the long years of struggle they have gone through. Gives meaning to those sudden, abrupt deaths, and will even encompass one small hobbit into the history of Durin’s people.

Or perhaps, Balin thinks, that is what he wants to believe. But even if he is deluding himself, he knows that this is the kind of delusion they will all need in order to go on.

***

Oin sinks down next to Thorin. The sun is beginning to peak over the horizon, the sky clear after last night’s storm. Few have slept this night, and if, only due to exhaustion.

Thorin has not – he has kept watch over the fire, even long after the pyre has burned out, and smoldering ashes were all that remained. He thinks of his nephews – one sleeping restlessly, and the other gone forever – of old friends now lost or further burdened, and young lives snuffed out too early.

Of those he barely knew, and strangers willing to lend a hand. And a decision he is not certain was correct.

“I couldn’t have saved them,” Oin says without prompting, “It was unlikely, really, to save either of them, but we did try our best.”

“And yet I had to make a choice,” Thorin mutters, head bowed.

Oin sighs. “You did, we all did. There wasn’t much anybody could have done – even if we’d made another decision, we’d still have lost them both.”

And that is what Oin knows with growing certainty. “Rivendell is too far. We would have never made it in time,” Oin continues, “Master Baggins … you saw his leg. I would have had to amputate before, and I don’t think he’d have survived that.”

Thorin falls silent, while Oin remembers the ashen face of their hobbit as Bifur held him tightly. Back then he had already lost too much blood, Oin thinks now; treating his ribs would have killed him as certainly as taking off that leg would have. And that was not even considering the pneumonia Bilbo would have suffered after.

Even the healers at Rivendell, Oin thinks, would have been hard pressed to save the hobbit.

“It was the right choice,” Oin tells Thorin who still looks so haunted, “Master Baggins was comfortable. There was a better chance of saving Fili…”

Or at least, it had seemed so. Oin can’t help grimace when he recalls what he found upon opening the young dwarf’s chest. There had been no chance of saving him; not with his ribcage pulverized, his right lung gone and blood filling up the other.

Thorin clenches his fists. Oin is more than familiar with that terrible sensation of grief and helplessness, and knows that he has said what he could. Words can only do so much – he hopes, they will at least assuage whatever guilt Thorin feels (even if they can never assuage the guilt they all share for not having been better friends to their smallest companion).

“I’m sorry,” Oin says, and then he rises and leaves.

A few moments later, Balin approaches. The morning light does little to hide his ill pallor, and for a moment Thorin fears that the grief will tear even more companions from his side.

However, Balin has seen as much death as Thorin has, and even now does not falter. “We need to get going,” he says, “This place --- is not safe.”

***

There is a short discussion on whether or not they ought to return to Rivendell, but nobody liked the elves there beyond the safety they offered, and the notion of sharing their grief with them is too much. They will all rather brave the unknown – as far as their feet will carry them.

Not a few, Thorin knows, would not mind a premature end to their own lives, now.

Then they need to redistribute their packs. Dori takes the food Bombur was carrying, while Nori picks up Ori’s book and a bundle of other possession that, Thorin is certain, belonged to the youngest brother, too.

Kili has Fili’s swords – Thorin knows because he saw him take those before he turned away. Going through the things of the departed to choose what to keep and what to discard had been another terrible hour last night. He has Fili’s hair beads and a small dagger – he hopes Dis will be willing to share more mementos should they ever be reunited (and she willing to ever forgive him, unlikely as it seems).

Bifur looks to be weighted down, carrying not only his own pack, but also three bundles of mementos. Gloin and Oin step in quickly, and even though Bifur is unwilling to let go, he lets Gloin take the cloth bag that belonged to Bombur and Oin the bundle that was Bilbo’s possessions.

And so, with a heavy heart, Thorin leads on.

***

Ironically, the next two days they have beautiful weather and ideal conditions. The path is dry and they do not encounter anything hostile – no orcs, no goblins, and no stone giants.

It’s as if fate was laughing at their pain.

On the third evening Gandalf catches up with them. The wizard looks to be in good cheer, though a bit miffed.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he thunders, “Did I not tell you to wait …”

And that is when Gandalf catches on. The dwarves have all been watching him with strangely bland expression, and while Thorin might glare, there is no fire in his eyes. Kili has not moved at all, sitting lifelessly against a tree, and Gandalf realizes he cannot see Fili anywhere.

Nor does he see Dwalin, whose bulky form ought to be hard to miss.

Half the company is gone.

“What happened?” Gandalf asks, “What…”

“Stone giants,” Balin says from behind Thorin’s shoulder, “On the mountain pass. There were three giants, fighting and ... we were separated. The other group --- did not survive it.”

Gandalf blinks, now pale. “The other group …”

“It is only us left,” Balin confirms, “The others are dead. Fili, Ori, my brother…”

“Also Bilbo?” Gandalf asks.

“The hobbit, too,” Balin confirms, “As well as Bofur and Bombur.”

Gandalf says nothing in response. He swallows and turns away, but not before Thorin catches the expression on the wizard’s face. It is the soul-eating guilt he, too, experiences. Guilt for leading his company into disaster. Guilt for surviving, where others died.

And Gandalf must feel it too, for he was the one who pressured the hobbit into leaving – leaving on an adventure that turned out to be his death.

That was certainly not what the wizard had planned, Thorin thinks.

But then, he himself had not planned on losing his nephew either.

***

In the end, the quest succeeds. Not without grievous losses, but Kili – the first King under the Mountain after Smaug’s death, does not feel very attached to Erebor’s riches and is more than willing to compensate Bard and Thranduil.

He is a good ruler, but constantly sad. Historians explain it by pointing to the heavy losses during the quest and in the final battle before Erebor. Of the fourteen that set out, only five lived to see the mountain reclaimed. Six died on the way, three – Thorin, Dori and Bifur – on the battlefield.

And it is only a few years further down the road that Balin and Oin set out on their ill-fated excursion to Moria.

Kili has just passed when Mordor’s servants come knocking and Elrond calls for a council. Gloin leaves with his son to the south (and only Gimli returns, with an elf for a friend), while Nori organizes the intelligence (eventually at the price of his own life as he is found with a dagger from the south in his back). It is his network that reports that the battle fought before the Black Gates is won, that Sauron has fallen. And yet the spies also report that, as long as the one ring is not found, Sauron may rise again.

_Fin_


	16. Stay with me (the consequence of loss)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili has an obsession with Bilbo. One that nobody quite knows how to handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lovely prompt from Syxx: dark!Kili. I'm afraid Kili ended up disturbed rather than dark, but alas. 
> 
> Warnings: beware of disturbing topics and imagery.

“It is a strange affliction,” the elvish healer says, “But not one that has not been seen before, and not particularly surprising to have developed in a dwarf.”

Thorin growls, while Balin frowns sadly. Bilbo bites his lip, his heart is in his throat and he doesn’t quite know how to understand the healer’s words. Fili is the one to ask the question: “So how can it be healed?”

“It cannot be healed, master dwarf,” the healer replies without any emotion to his words, “In rare cases the affliction waned with time, but do not expect that to happen.”

***

It begins harmless enough. The brothers welcome Bilbo with open arms and the hobbit, when faced with the distant treatment of the rest of the company, gladly accepts. Truly, he doesn’t mind the teasing, and after some bruises (and the troll incident) Fili and Kili seem to figure out just how far they can push.

Kili, though, is thoroughly fascinated by the fact that Bilbo, while not that much smaller than the dwarves, has but half of their strength and is much less hardy. A slap on the back easily throws the hobbit off his feet, and the firm grip Kili has on Bilbo’s arm to help him over a particular steep cliff leaves purple, finger-shaped bruises on the hobbit’s pale skin.

They are all rather surprised to see them.

“No harm done,” Bilbo tells them with an awkward chuckle, and makes to push the sleeve of his shirt down again, but Kili’s hand is in the way.

“Your arms are really thin,” the young prince says with a deep sense of wonder.

Bilbo flushes and attempts to tug his arm away, but Kili’s grip holds firm. “I’ll have you know,” the hobbit mutters, “That this is quite normal for a hobbit, truly. We just aren’t that, ah, muscled.”

Kili blinks and then lets go of the appendage. Sheepishly, he rubs at the back of his head. “No offense intended, master hobbit, none at all.”

Bilbo glares at him for good measure, but the sparkle in his eye gives away that he doesn’t mind at all. And soon enough, he is smiling at the conversation again, even though Fili catches him rubbing at his arm as if it was hurting him.

*** 

“What do we have to expect?” Thorin asks.

The healer sighs. “Nothing beyond what you already observed. We believe that the affliction stems from grave losses that were never truly dealt with, coupled with a loss of control – so the person in questions finds an object, or in this case, a person, to cling onto.”

And it is Bilbo’s willingness to forgive, his kindness and his warm smiles that paved the road to ruin. Though, Fili quietly thinks to himself, ruin might have been upon all of them far earlier had their hobbit not been present. Still, that half-mad gleam that now lights Kili’s eyes sends a cold shudder down his spine.

***

“Kili, what are you…” Bilbo’s choked off half-exclamation makes Fili glance over.

“I could snap it,” Kili says, his voice oddly hollow and his eyes staring in fascination at where his hand encloses the entire width of Bilbo’s upper arm. The hobbit stands awkwardly in the grip, forced onto his toe tips to relieve the pressure, his face twisted in obvious discomfort.

Kili doesn’t seem to notice, and Fili feels very, very uneasy all of a sudden.

“Just like that,” Kili continues, “Just a little more pressure – it won’t take much really.”

“Kili,” Bilbo forces out between his teeth, “Kili, you’re hurting…”

Fili sees how his brother’s fingers tighten, digging even deeper into the soft flesh, and Bilbo’s words end in a pained gasp.

Kili doesn’t seem to notice what he’s doing.

Only when Fili rips his brother’s hand away and Bilbo stumbles backwards with a small, pained sound escaping from his throat Kili’s eyes finally clear. He blinks at his brother and the hobbit, confused for a long, terrible moment.

Then: “Oh Mahal, I’m sorry, Bilbo, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Kili exclaims and instantly draws the hobbit into a tight hug, “Truly, I, I don’t quite know what came over me, but I …”

Bilbo relaxes into the embrace and eventually claps Kili’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean to,” he tells the distraught dwarf, “Don’t worry, I know and no harm was done.”

Bilbo’s capacity for forgiveness, Fili thinks, is amazing. He wouldn’t be so quick to assure everything is fine if somebody had almost broken his arm.

***

The fixation, the healer explains, can express itself in a variety of manners. Some gentle, some violent, and yet all disturbing – Fili sees how Bilbo grows paler and paler as he listens.

“Common themes,” the healer drones on, “Are obsessive behavior as well as jealousy. A strong desire to keep the object to oneself and limit access to it. Also, in reverse, if the subject happens to be a living being, a desire to limit its scope of movement and keep them close.”

“Control is an important aspect,” the healer continues, “As the subject may be drawn to compensate for a situation where control was lost.”

***

They are in Laketown, when a thud from upstairs draws Fili’s attention. He’s alone in the house – supposed to be – and wearily draws a dagger from his boots.

On silent feet he creeps upstairs. Shuffling noises emerge from the room he shares with Kili, and he holds his breath. A thief? An assassin?

“Oh, Eru help me,” a familiar voice abruptly curses, and Fili lets go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He slips the dagger back into its place, and steps into the room, already about to question if Bilbo is now rearranging to furniture in their room.

He’s rather surprised to find Bilbo tied to chair, toppled over.

The hobbit glares at him.

“Oh,” is all Fili manages, “What happened?”

Bilbo snorts. “Your brother thought it hilarious to make sure I stay here. Too much water around and too cold outside.”

He wriggles, but the bindings don’t come loose. Fili finds the corners of his mouth twitching – their hobbit does look rather amusing trussed up like this. And he’s still rather pale from his cold, so Fili does agree that it would be better if he stayed inside one more day.

“Indeed?” he asks.

“Obviously,” Bilbo replies, “And are you going to keep gaping or are you going to help me get loose?”

“You know what,” Fili says as he crosses the room, “I do rather agree with my brother. Sometime he has some sense.”

With that, he rights the chair, turns to grab a blanket and spreads it over Bilbo. The hobbit pulls at the bindings, and stares at Fili in confusion. Who just smiles and says, “As I said, Kili wasn’t wrong – you shouldn’t be going outside."

Bilbo’s jaw drops. “Excuse me?” he asks, “I … would you just let me go? This is… isn’t funny anymore. Really, Fili!”

A part of Fili itches to continue teasing. Bilbo usually deals well with it, no matter what he is dragged into. But somewhere underneath Bilbo’s complaints there’s a truer note that tells Fili that their hobbit is not comfortable with this kind of teasing.

***

And now it’s all gone downhill, Fili thinks. The tense atmosphere around him is testament to that. Kili’s absence and Bilbo’s harried expression another proof. Balin looks as if somebody died, and Thorin has his head bowed – he shouldn’t be blaming himself, Fili thinks. He’s not responsible for all the devastation and loss that surrounded him and his brother when they grew up.

It no one’s fault, really, that Kili has always tended to cling to people. Or that Bilbo Baggins just turned out to be willing to entertain Kili’s quirks. He couldn’t have known what he was courting either.

Couldn’t have known that at someplace, deep in Kili’s soul, he became the subject that could not be let go again, that had to be controlled.  

“If Bilbo leaves…” Fili ventures, tentative in the silence.

The healer’s expression becomes grim. “Your brother’s mind will shatter.”

***

Bilbo is too tired to protest when Kili begins to turn his attentions onto him. Around them, the dwarves rejoice by decking each other out in fine garments and precious gems – Bilbo would prefer a comfortable bed, but he won’t begrudge them their good cheer. The mountain is won, the dragon slain – so now they hopefully all can rest easier.

He shifts when Kili drapes a gold chain around his neck, which is on the heavy side. Bilbo glances down to see it sparkle with rubies- When he moves to take it off, Kili catches his hand and gently draws it behind his back. Bilbo allows it, long since used to Kili’s antics, and far too exhausted to do anything against them.

Another piece of jewelry is added around his wrists. Only when Bilbo tries to draw his hands apart, he finds he can’t. Surprised, he looks at Kili.

“You,” Kili tells him with a glint in his eyes, “Are going to stay here.”

Bilbo frowns, and behind Kili somebody chuckles. He probably looks ridiculous, he realizes – not that he can do anything about that right now. Kili hums and dives back into the treasure, picking out rings and beads, and beautiful, glittering things that Bilbo would all trade for a meal and bed.

But the dwarves have other priorities, now, and he will not begrudge them their joy.

With a sigh, Bilbo submits himself to being Kili’s plaything. (He does rather enjoy seeing his dwarves happy, after all they’ve been through). And Kili doesn’t mind if he closes his eyes and dozes off at some point.

***

“Then I will stay,” Bilbo says, eventually.

His head is bowed, and Balin sucks in a breath through his teeth. Thorin steps forward immediately.

“You do not have to,” he tells their burglar, “You fulfilled your contract – you are free to go.”

Bilbo sighs. “Yes, well. You heard as I did what will happen to Kili should I leave.”

“We also heard what my brother might do to you should you stay,” Fili protests, “And while I don’t want anything to befall my brother, I don’t want him to do anything to you either. He wouldn’t want that, if his mind was clear.”

“Kili has always been very kind to me,” Bilbo says.

Fili is not sure whether to believe that – he remembers finger-shaped bruises on Bilbo’s arm, his brother’s odd fascination of how easily it would be to break that thin arm. But he hasn’t witnessed any scene after that – so perhaps what Bilbo says is true.

“Be that as it may,” Thorin announces, “You are under no obligation to stay – I know you miss your home. You should go.”

“And I would,” Bilbo replies, “But I don’t want anything to happen to Kili. So if I stay a little longer, who is to say he won’t get better? You heard the healer, he will never recover if I leave.”

Fili’s heart breaks. He knows how much their hobbit has missed his home, how uncomfortable he feels as a lone hobbit in a dwarven kingdom. How Kili’s growing obsessiveness makes him uneasy.

And yet he will sacrifice his home, his comfort and his freedom for Kili’s sake.

_Fin_


	17. An Impossible Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azog catches up with the company. And forces Thorin to choose between his nephews and Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the kinkmeme: hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12664765#t12664765
> 
> Warnings: Blood, gore, torture, angst. Please take caution.

The Eagles might have saved them once, but when Azog catches up with the dwarves on the edge of Mirkwood – three days after they left Beorn’s house – luck is not with them. Gloin goes down first, when an orc blade collides with his head. 

For a split second Thorin freezes (and Oin screams, but he’s not hearing it over the roar of the battle), his eyes fixed on Gloin’s downed form – remembers other battles, the loss of friends and kin, and already despair is forming in his chest. Then he sees that there’s no blood on the ground, and no blade protruding from Gloin’s body.

Unconscious, but alive.

Thorin realizes this just in time to duck another blade. He twists away, and neatly slices off the orc’s arm. Blood splatters the ground, Thorin hears a warg howl. It cuts of abruptly as Dwalin smashes its head in, but three others take its place. 

Too many, Thorin thinks, and sinks his blade into a warg chest. The beast collapses, but behind him there’s orcs, and orcs and orcs. And on a hill, only a little distance away, Azog oversees the scene, calmly.

“Bombur!” Both Bofur and Nori yell, as an orc sends him tumbling.

Bombur, too, stays down.

Thorin presses his lips together. His next swing decapitates two orcs, but there are too many. Too many.

They need a miracle. Yet Gandalf has left them for good, this time. What miracle can they hope for? Or strategy? Thorin realizes they can’t win like this, they need to regroup, they need a plan…  and suddenly there’s a scream.

A spear is protruding from Kili’s shoulder – Thorin sees the shocked expression on Kili’s face, and his heart skips a beat. No pain yet, but Fili roars and dispatches the orc. Behind him, Kili collapses and the brothers are driven apart.

Azog shouts something in that ugly language. Thorin wants to shout, but he is too far away. Helplessly he watches as Kili – unconscious and helpless – is surrounded by at least eight orcs. One coolly levels a sword to his throat.

“Draw together!” Balin shouts, next to him, and Thorin absentmindedly realizes the remaining company is forming a circle. Bifur stumbles next to him, covered in blood, and to his left Dwalin is smashing in orc skulls.

“Bilbo!” Bofur yells.

There’s a choked-off scream, and Thorin catches sight of the hobbit going down, an orc behind his back. Bilbo’s sword flies out of his grip, landing too far away. And when Bilbo attempts to stumble up, the orc points a sword at his throat.

The Halfling stills.

Azog’s laughter echoes in time with the pounding of Thorin’s heart. The sweat on his back is icy, and the sword in his hand feels clumsy and useless.  Fili screams – curses and threatens to not effect. Only Dwalin’s arms wrapped around his torso keep him from an insane charge.

Thorin knows this ought to be his task – but how can he, when Azog has a blade pressed to his other nephew’s throat? Kili remains unconscious – a small mercy – but that does not stop the small trickle of blood from running down his neck.

“Tonight,” Azog boasts, “victory would be easy for me. But, Thorin Oakenshield, instead I will offer you a choice.”

Thorin growls low in his throat. The company draws closer to him – Bifur even drags his unconscious brother with him. At least Bofur seems alive – another small mercy.  Around them the orcs guwaff and snort; shrill, mocking sounds.

“A choice most befitting of a King,” Azog continues, “It should not be too hard for you, oh King under the Mountain.”

At a nod of his head, one of the other orcs comes forward, dragging the smallest member of their company along. Thorin’s heart drops.

Bilbo is alive and kicking quite ferociously against the orc’s shin and scratching at the arm wrapped around his upper torso. But for all his struggles, they hardly even bother the creature.

Even Fili’s screams have stopped.

“Your choice, King under the Mountain,” Azog announces, “Is which of your two companions here will rejoin you.”

“What of the other?” Thorin asks. His voice does not betray the uproar in his heart. Could they take the orcs by surprise? Could a desperate fight be won?

He looks at the tableau – one orc holds a blade to Kili’s throat, while the other could easily snap Bilbo’s neck with its bare hands.

He cannot risk it.

Azog contemplates the question. “We kill them,” he tells Thorin.

Bilbo has ceased struggling, and by chance Thorin’s eyes find his. There’s fear in those wide eyes, fear and pain and Thorin wishes he could undo those emotions. Bilbo does not beg for his life – but he can’t hide the desperation from his eyes, the heart-wrenching plea to be saved.

Yet, Thorin also sees resignation – Bilbo knows better than to hope for salvation, is trying to accept that he will be condemned to death by those that should rescue him.

Thorin swallows. “Kill me,” he tells Azog, “It is me your quarrel is with. Neither of them need be involved.”

Azog throws his head back and laughs. The noise echoes sharply through the darkening world – a world where nobody is near enough to help them. No wizard is here. No eagle will come.

“No, Thorin Oakenshield,” Azog states with a twisted grin, “There are only those two options. Choose. And be quick about it – lest they both die.”

Thorin’s heart speeds up. He can’t make this decision – he can’t decide who gets to life here and now, can’t decide between his nephew and his friend – but he must.

Once more, he looks to Bilbo. The hobbit is breathing heavily, and it is difficult to see in the fading light, but there might be tear tracks on his face. When he sees Thorin turn to him, Bilbo closes his eyes. And gives a minuscule nod.

Because this decision, no matter how much Thorin wishes otherwise, is not that difficult at all. Kili is his sister’s son, his own heir and far too young and cheerful to perish here.

“Then I’ll have the dwarf back,” he tells Azog, and bows his head.

He feels the shocked gazes of his companion bore into his back. There’s an aborted shout of protest, another gasps for air – and isn’t it lucky, that Bofur is unconscious? Bofur is a far better friend to Bilbo than Thorin will ever be; Bofur would not condemn the hobbit to die.

Thorin might as well be the one to kill Bilbo himself.

There’s movement, and Thorin glances up. The orc that holds onto Bilbo is joined by another – and the two of them start wrapping the hobbit with long, coarse rope. Bilbo struggles, protests, and Thorin is spared seeing betrayal on his face.

Confusion rears its head, and unbinds Thorin’s tongue. “You said you would kill him,” he tells Azog. Because somewhere he had prayed for a quick, painless death for Bilbo. If he cannot save his life -

The orc smirks. “Certainly, at some point.”

Black guilt envelopes Thorin’s heart. What fate has he abandoned Bilbo to? What has he done? Perhaps if he gets hold of Kili’s bow, he can still shoot Bilbo with an arrow – such a death is preferable to whatever Azog has in mind.

Instead of finding the bow, Thorin once more finds Bilbo’s eyes. They’re wide with tears and desperation, pleading – and Thorin knows this moment will haunt him until he dies.

And he will deserve it.

Then the second orc hits Bilbo over the head with a rock and the hobbit slumps forward, unconscious. The orcs finish tying him up, and then throw his form across a warg’s back. Azog returns to his own white warg, and barks out an order to the others.

“Until our next meeting, Thorin Oakenshield,” he promises. And with loud howls the group disappears, leaving behind a reduced and disconsolate company.

Fili is the first to unfreeze. He frees himself from Dwalin’s hold and stumbles forward. Drops to his knees once he reaches Kili’s motionless form in the grass, and then just sits there, dumbfounded. Behind him, the others awaken – weapons are put away, and Oin first kneels down next to Gloin.

 Thorin’s mind is reeling. What has he done, what monstrous deed has he committed against one that has never so much as wished him ill.

***

Time passes, the shadows lengthen, and Oin declares even those unconscious well enough for transport. They need shelter – even if it is unlikely that the orcs will haunt them this night. Shelter, and food, and Thorin feels hollow as he addresses the company.

Nobody protests.

And yet the world has shifted. The unwavering loyalty has been shaken. His dwarves will continue to follow him, but to them Thorin has shown a willingness to sacrifice one of their own without a blink.

Not one blames him for the choice he made.

No one tells him it was right, either.

***

Bilbo wakes to the rough sensation of being dragged. His head scrapes over stones, and his vision blurs – he can’t twist into a more comfortable position; the moment he tries, white hot spikes of pain races down his arms.

Then his memory returns, and he wishes he had stayed unconscious.

All around him, orcs chatter in their grating language, and even the earth smells foul. There’s a fire crackling nearby, and with a bout of hysteria Bilbo wonders if they will eat him – if they will accomplish what three trolls failed to do.

Instead, he is lifted by the coarse ropes wrapped around his torso, biting into his skin even through his clothes. Weakly he tries to struggle, but his feet are in the air, and all it does is set his body swinging.

The orcs laugh.

“He’s awake,” one yells, and Bilbo shuts his eyes and wishes fiercely he had never moved.

Heavy footsteps draw him from his contemplations. A grow nearby forces him to open his eyes, and he sees Azog’s white warg stare up at him. Next to the beast is a pair of legs that –

A hand grabs Bilbo by the hair and forces his head up. His neck aches in protest, and he can’t help the pained gasp that falls from his lips. Azog’s face is close, too close, and Bilbo’s heart pounds so fast he thinks he must faint.

Azog grins. “You are right to be afraid,” he growls, and when Bilbo attempts to glare in response, he chuckles, “But not afraid enough yet. What an odd creature…”

He turns Bilbo’s head, and the cold metal claw that is Azog’s other arm prods at his ears.

“Elvish ears,” some other orc snorts, “I’ve never seen such a short elf. Must be bastard.”

Laughter echoes through the group, and Bilbo hopes that whatever must come to pass will do so quickly. And without much pain. Already, his eyes are burning.

“Are you an elvish bastard?” Azog inquires, looking actually honestly curious. When Bilbo remains silent, he gives him a painful shake.

“No,” Bilbo gasps out, “I’m a hobbit. A hobbit.”

“Never heard of those,” another orc growls.

“From the Shire,” Bilbo hastens to add, though from the reactions it seems that the name is not known to this group.

“I say we cut them off,” one orc jeers, “Cut off those elvish ears.”

“Nonono,” Bilbo protests, and his throat begins to ache from the strain, “That, really, no, I’m not an elf. Hobbits and elves aren’t even…”

Azog smirks. “I like that idea. Bring me a knife. And you, make sure he doesn’t move.”

“NO!” Bilbo screams, but it only makes the orcs laugh harder.

He kicks and struggles, but the ropes are tight and thick and fixed to a point high above him.

It takes two orcs to hold him down, and Bilbo bites at all fingers that come too close. Yet he is powerless when rough hands grab him by the hair and pull his head back so far he can’t move or risk his neck snapping.

Perhaps he should, he thinks as he is left gasping for air, his vision askew, but not blurred enough to not see the glint of metal in Azog’s hand. He wishes he could – though in this position he cannot move a muscle.

“Don’t,” Bilbo mutters, not caring about the tears exposed for all to see, “Please.”

The cold metal touches his ear, just underneath the tip. Azog chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll start slow.”

Then the blade cuts in and the pain makes the world fade away.

***

Thorin’s feet have carried him to his nephews. Oin is bowed over Kili; skilled hands wrapping the injury to his shoulder and Fili hovers anxiously. The cut on his throat is an angry red line – it will heal on its own, Thorin knows.

He can’t stand to think how close to losing his nephew he had come.

“He’ll be alright,” Oin announces, “Just has to take it easy for a couple of days – not strain that shoulder, and such. He was lucky, that spear did not go in very deep.”

As if on cue, Kili’s eyelids start fluttering. The next moment they snap open, and only Fili’s and Oin’s quick reactions keep him from jumping to his feet.

“Kili!” Fili exclaims.

“Brother?” Kili asks. Then a frown settles over his features. “What happened? Did we win?”

Guilt clenches in a cold fist around Thorin’s chest. He can’t breathe, nor form words to explain what occurred. Instead, Fili pats his brother’s head in a soothing gesture.

“Not quite,” he says, “But the orcs are gone.”

“What do you mean? Is everybody alright? Uncle?” Kili asks.

“I’m alright, Kili,” Thorin tells him. His voice his raw, obstructed. It’s probably the first time he has spoken since he made that ill-fated decision.

“I … the Azog took Bilbo,” he says.

It’s not the entire truth. But how can he tell Kili that Bilbo was traded for his life? How can burden his nephew with that knowledge, when the decision was Thorin’s?

“What?!” Kili exclaims, and this time he sits up. Fili is there to steady him, but Kili does not sway, nor does he appear dizzy. “And you let them go?!”

Thorin bows his head.

“There was no other choice, laddie,” Balin offers, “We could not have won.”

It’s not an absolution. But at least Balin understands his decision.

“We should’ve fought,” Kili protests, “We shouldn’t have….”

“If we’d all gotten ourselves killed, they’d still have taken the Halfling,” Dwalin interrupts, “As long as we’re alive, we can take him back.”

And they must.

Thorin has been too wrapped in his guilt to realize that there is a need to take action. Dwalin’s words are like a blow – he is the leader, he should have figured this. But now that he has been awoken, the pieces are falling into place.

With a deep breathe, he straightens his back.

“Fili,” he tells his nephew, “I need you to step up as the leader of the company. Keep to the river until the path to Mirkwood opens – you cannot miss it, and Balin will recognize it. Stick to the path – we will catch up with you when we can.”

“But I…” Fili makes to protest, and Thorin shakes his head.

“I allowed Azog to take our burglar, and I will see that he is rescued. That is my responsibility.”

“But we all could have done something,” Ori protests, “I want to go and rescue him, too!”

“We still have a quest,” Thorin tells them, “And I would ask you not to abandon it – think of those that miss their homeland – for them we need to continue forward.”

“You can’t go on your own,” Dwalin interrupts him, “That’d be stupid. I’ll join.”

Bifur mutters an affirmative, and within moments the entire company is offering to go with him – but for Bofur and Gloin who remain unconscious. Thorin swallows – he hopes they will be in time for Bilbo. They all have grown fond of their hobbit.

He will not be able to persuade Dwalin to stay – not as he knows that Dwalin has a soft spot for their burglar. Thorin does not know about Bifur – Bofur is the one who first befriended Bilbo – but Bifur is a capable fighter and quick on his feet.

“Dwalin and Bifur are with me,” he tells them, “The rest of you continue.”

***

Bilbo awakes to a dull pain pounding through his skull. His arms are numb and his body aches – and his neck is sticky. He winces and the movement makes him swing. Nausea rises.

It takes far too long to fight it down, and when Bilbo’s mind clears, the orcs have noticed he is awake. Azog, though, is barking about in that harsh speech, uncaring of the hobbit trussed up like a pig for slaughter next to his throne.

It is not really a throne, though. Just a large stone seat overseeing the ruined watchtower and the lands surrounding it. Azog perches upon it like a King, and the white warg lies to his feet.  Bilbo dangles from a column next to him – he will not escape from this on his own.

“He’s awake,” one of the orcs exclaims, and a fierce pain explodes in Bilbo’s head. His ear – or what remains of it – pounds, and he feels like vomiting – and somehow the world is askew.

When he comes back to himself, Azog is watching him closely. There’s unholy light in his eyes and Bilbo can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. Already his body feels wrong – the pain may be dull, but he knows that he is not alright, that this is worse than a scraped knee – and he fears what will come.

Bilbo drops his head and closes his eyes. A sharp slap wrenches his head to the side, causes his entire body to swing, but the movement is aborted as a hand buries itself in his hair and forces his head upward.

“You don’t look away when I look at you,” Azog growls.

Bilbo tries to nod, though his neck feels strained to the point he thinks it must break.

“It does not surprise me that dwarf scum was so quick to abandon you,” Azog tells Bilbo, “Or did you expect him to choose you over one of his own kind?”

This time Bilbo holds the orc’s gaze – no matter if his heart pounds faster than it ever has. But if the orc thinks he can taunt him –

“Especially with how weak you are. I wonder why they took you along, but then, that particular line has never been very bright. Too obsessed with treasure, all of them,” Azog continues, “They’d rather kill than pay – not that I disagree with that, but you look naïve enough to believe whatever they promised you.”

If this is supposed to unsettle him, at least it is not working? Though Bilbo wonders if he can feel more afraid than he does now – the orc could snap his neck with one movement, and maybe…

Maybe that would be for the best? Bilbo’s heart contracts painfully – suddenly, he realizes, he does not want to die. He does not want to be in pain, does not want to be here – but he does not want to die here either.

Yet a rescue seems unlikely.

“They are probably glad to be rid of you,” Azog says, and the words cut.

That one instant in which Bilbo saved Thorin’s life does not outweigh all the other moments when Bilbo slowed the group down. Or demonstrated his unsuitability to adventure – doubtlessly, the company will move faster without him.

And have fewer persons to worry about when it battle.

It’s painful to breathe, and Bilbo feels a familiar burn in his eyes. This is not the right moment, and the fault is not with Azog’s words, though the orc may think so. It’s the slowly-settling realization that there will be no escape from this. No wizard, no magic ring, nothing will save him here.

Death remains the only option.

“My scouts have told me they’ve already traveled onward. They’re moving about a lot of faster, too, without you,” Azog says, with a toothy grin.

Bilbo does not want to provoke him. But he will do what he must. “Then you should start pursuing, shouldn’t you? In the time you needed to catch up last time, we had almost a fortnight of a holiday – so if that’s your normal speed, they’ll be on the other side of middle earth before you’ll even reach their next campsite.”

Only then Bilbo notices that Azog is not looking at, but past him – and before he can turn, there’s a sizzling noise and pain explodes from the soles of his feet. He can’t stop the scream, can’t even try not to struggle – because it’s hot, blinding, burning – and around him the orcs laugh and laugh, and he tries to kick, to squirm away, but a strong hand grasps his ankles.

When it’s over, the air smells of burned flesh and Bilbo’s throat is raw. He hangs numbly in his bindings, while around him the orcs frolic and gurgle and he just wants this to be over. His ear is numb, is feet pound – both, the soles and the left ankle – and he feels so wrong.

He feels as if this is the kind of injury one does not recover from.

Azog grunts, and says something to the other orcs that evokes a spirited reaction. Much chatter arises, and Azog rises to walk away, the white warg at his heels.  The pale orc turns once again.

“Leave the face alone,” Azog growls, “I want to see the dwarves reactions when I return the body. 

***

Tracking the orcs is not difficult. They have left a wide trail of trampled bushes and upturned earth. Thorin, Dwalin and Bifur can practically follow the trail running – though they have to be cautious, lest they stumble upon scouts.

Or worse, run into another trap.

Thorin does not dare think of what other cruelties Azog might come up with.

He lets Bifur take the lead, because he knows he is not at his best. His mind is too clouded, too wrapped up in contemplating the choice he made. Trying to find alternative solutions – but the only ideas that come are dangerous or suicidal, and none would have guaranteed Kili’s and Bilbo’s survival.

The Orcs do not even attempt to hide. Their quarter is an abandoned watchtower, that sits on a hill surveying the surrounding woodlands. The shine of a fire brightens the nightsky and their voices carry.

Thorin gestures for Dwalin and Bifur to come closer. They are yet far away, and it is unlikely that they will be seen or overheard, but he cannot allow any further mistakes.

"We meet under that outcropping," he points at a rock formation halfway between them and the watchtower, "At the latest, in an hour, earlier if one of us discovers Bilbo. If you do, hoot three times."

The other two nod, grim determination on their faces. Then they split.

***

Bilbo only registers pain. Something is fundamentally wrong with his body, and the remains of his ear pound. His feet are another affair entirely - they feel hot and sore and he does not even want to see how they look. Not even the hardened soles of hobbit feet are good against hot iron.

His ribs ache - there are some blurry memories of the orcs directing their iron rods - now cooled - towards his middle, but at least he was so far gone that he did not feel any pain. Now the pain is all too present; as is the sticky, wet warmth that coats his neck and his feet.

He cannot see the extent of his injuries. Yet he fears some may be beyond recovery.

He does not want to die here, but if he must, he hopes it will not be long, now. The horrified expression on Thorin's face is naught but a distant memory. And that not long ago he rested, at ease, with the dwarves, must have been a recollection from another lifetime.

Thoughts of another lifetime summon memories of home. The pain is too much, and Bilbo has to bite down on his lip to stifle a sob lodged in his throat. It may prevent the tears from escaping, but it does draw Azog’s attention as well.

The pale orc rises, and prods Bilbo’s side with his metal arm. “Awake, are you now? Doesn’t take much to make you faint – well, those dwarves may yet thank me for ridding them of you.”

White hot sparks of pain race through Bilbo’s arm – numb until now – and he barely even hears what Azog says.

“Though I wonder what that dwarf will say when I return your body,” he continues, “Maybe he won’t care. In which case it really doesn’t matter how many pieces we cut you into. But the others – they did have the look of being stupidly attached. So I wonder, what would horrify them most?”

Azog prods Bilbo’s side again, setting him swinging. He hates it, hates how the movement first propels him away, then right against Azog’s chest. The orc stinks of death and sweat, and Bilbo would vomit if there was anything left in his stomach.

“Shall I gouge out your eyeballs? Cut up that pretty face? Do you think that would scare them?” Azog asks, “Or maybe take an arm or a leg – though that would be a quite quick death for you. And I want them to know that it was long and painful.”

***

Not too far away, the remaining company rests only because they must. The mood is low, and Gloin and Bofur have yet to awaken. It is unlikely any of them will find rest during the last hours of this night, but they need their strength tomorrow.

And Fili does not want to march too far tonight, in case – should luck be with them – their away party return early.

The place they found is better protected than their former campsite – still, Fili joins Dori and Balin during their shift. Kili wants to stay awake, too – he is unsettled and upset, however, Oin is quick to put the notion from his head.

No matter how bleak their situation, exhaustion is quick to put most dwarves to sleep.

“How long until we reach Mirkwood?” Fili asks Balin. The new responsibility rests heavily upon his shoulders.

“Tomorrow afternoon if we keep our speed,” Balin replies, “The morning after at the latest.”

“Should we wait there for the others?” Because he cannot seriously contemplate that they will not come back. He can only accept this horrifying responsibility if it is temporary.

Balin sighs. “Not for too long, though. It will not be easy to guess which path we intend to take, and there are other, hostile beings that live along the borders of the forest.”

“But we have to…”

“Laddie, there is only three of them – they can travel far quicker than we will be able to. And Thorin expects you to continue onward. They will catch up with us when the time is right,” Balin says, gently.

Fili can’t help but shudder.

“Now, however, perhaps we ought to think about our stores? I think some was lost in the attack, and Mirkwood is…”

A low groan cuts off Balin’s words, and they are both up and over before Bofur has even managed to open his eyes. The dwarf blinks in confusion, and in lieu of Oin, Balin checks the bump on his head.

“Oh,” Bofur comments, “I do remember hearing that orc behind me – just couldn’t turn around in time.”

“Well, the wound will be fine if it does not get infected,” Balin pronounces, but before Fili can even feel relieved, Bofur sits up and asks: “So, what happened?”

The silence says it all.

Bofur draws in a tense breath. “Oh. What ….”

“The orcs took Bilbo,” Fili says, tonelessly, and Bofur pales, “Thorin, Dwalin and Bifur went after them. We … are expected to continue on.”

Bofur blinks, and Fili watches different emotions run over his face, before he settles for a grim determination. “I suppose it is too late to join them, now,” Bofur comments, “Though… morbid as it is, why did they not kill us? I thought Azog was among them.”

Fili can’t help the instinct to look away, and Balin, noticing his discomfort, leans forward. With a heavy sigh. “They could have. We did not win that fight – could not have won it, truly. Though rather than kill Thorin, Azog came up with a better form of torture.”

Fili closes his eyes against the memories. His uncle’s face is burned onto the backside of his eyelids, as is the expression on Bilbo’s. Especially the quiet, terrified resignation when Thorin had decided for Kili.

“He made Thorin choose,” Balin says, evenly, “Between Bilbo and Kili.”

Bofur sucks in a sharp breath. Then he curses.

“Please, I understand if you are angry, but … there really was no other way,” Fili pleads before he even knows what he is pleading for, “Uncle… uncle did not mean to abandon Bilbo. He, he just had no choice, and Kili….”

And Kili is Fili’s little brother, Thorin’s nephew and the youngest in their group. Whereas Bilbo is practically a stranger, unskilled with weapons and not even a dwarf. Even though Fili knows that there could have been no right decision, it still tastes like betrayal.

He hopes Bofur understands it is not meant to be.

Yet Bofur looks at him for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he frowns. “I see,” he says and his voice sounds oddly hollow, “And I know what you want to say, but … once this is over and should worst come to worst I – that is all of my clan – will claim Bilbo as kin. Just to make sure he’s done by rightly for once. Not necessary for --- compensation, or anything.”

Fili’s heart is painfully twisted, even though he nods in agreement. He would have liked to claim Bilbo as kin himself – with all the rights and duties it entailed. To look out for the hobbit, to help him and to care for him, to demand for compensation on his account – the right to treat him as family.

But he – his kin – has lost that right.

And for a slight like Thorin committed, Bofur can demand his head by the ancient dwarvish laws.

***

Thorin hears the hoot moments after he discovered Bilbo himself.  They regroup within a short time, though the mood is tense.

"You all saw the hobbit?" he asks, and Dwalin and Bifur nod.

Bilbo's form is hard to miss, dangling from a beam in the middle of the ruined watchtower, right next to Azog's decripict throne. And the pale orc and his servants right next to him. Sneaking in would only be possible if any of them could be invisible.

"We need a distraction," Bifur says in Khuzdul, "and a bow."

***

“What do you say?” Azog asks again, “Answer. If you don’t use your tongue, we may as well cut it off.”

Bilbo swallows, and Azog’s metal hook digs into his side. Something shifts in the pocket of his poorly mended waistcoat, and with a dull thud, a small golden ring falls out.

“What is….”

On the other side of the camp, a scream goes up.

***

They procure a bow and arrows from one of the warg riders. It’s ridiculously easy, and Dwalin and Thorin can only watch how Bifur uses the orc’s dead body, one arrow and a whole lot of sounds to create an uproar.

“Murderer!” one of the orc yells, “You murdering scum!”

The other orc turns. “You murdered him! You did it!”

“I saw him do it!” And within minutes, the orcs are stabbing each other. It is amazing, how in the fire mess three dwarfs can sneak unseen right up to the campfire. Bifur hands the bow to Thorin, while Dwalin sets the arrowheads on fire.

“Four patches. Then the rope,” Thorin hisses.

***

Azog has barely taken three steps as a glint of red lightens the air, and abruptly a fire goes up on the other side of the camp. Orcs shriek in confusion, panic breaks out, and even Azog’s roars are barely audible over the dim.

Bilbo watches with wide eyes as more fires go up all over the camp – an attack? Infighting? How is this…

A last arrow, this one dark and invisible in the night, pierces through the rope holding him up. It’s a lucky shot, Bilbo thinks, and then the rope rips. He is tied and cannot catch his fall – he hits the ground hard, the impact knocking all air from his lungs and for long moments the world swims.

Then Azog roars a familiar word in a bout of previously unseen fury. “Dwarfs!”

Bilbo’s heart jumps. A sudden spark of hope springs up in his chest – he doesn’t care who it is, but he is on the ground, he can try and get away, because everything is better than dying like this –

Azog turns, his hate-filled eyes find Bilbo.

Whatever the orcs have done to Bilbo until now will be a child’s play in comparison to what Azog desires now.

But Bilbo won’t let that happen. He can feel the familiar cold metal of his ring press against his hipbones – some uncomfortable shifting and stretching, and he no longer feels just how chafed and raw his wrists are – and his right hand closes around it.

Azog unsheathes his blade, sprints forward while the world behind him grows red –

And Bilbo slips the ring on his finger and rolls away.

The pale orc halts, confused.

Bilbo’s heart is pounding like mad – he tries to get his feet under him, even though the pain makes him want to scream. But this is his chance, he must run, run, run, before his luck runs out.

And he manages, half stumbling, half crawling, to get away, to get down the stairs from the plateau of the ruined watchtower. Farther and farther away from Azog who yells in fury, yet with the camp on fire the orcs do not listen.

Then he sees three familiar shapes pushing their way through.

***

They’re half-way to Azog’s throne, when out of thin air, Bilbo Baggins materializes in front of them. Thorin can barely suppress a surprised exclamation – the orcs have not recognized them for dwarves yet, and they have kept to the shadows.

But now….

“Bilbo,” Thorin mutters and sinks to his knees in front of the hobbit. There’s dried blood on Bilbo’s face and he looks a mess, but he is alive and his eyes are clear.

“We need to get away,” Bifur hisses urgently.

Before Thorin can say anything, Dwalin has scooped up their burglar in a gentle hold. At least Thorin hopes it is – they have no time to treat injuries now. They don’t even have time to undo the ropes.

“Let’s disappear,” Dwalin agrees. He and Bifur turn, and hurry away. Thorin casts one last look at Azog – the pale orc remains on his plateau, shouting orders – he could perhaps kill him in this chaos, but he will not risk Bilbo’s life for this.

***

All of a sudden, Dori gestures at them to be silent. Balin has already drawn his blade before Fili even hears the odd sounds over the rustling leaves. He reaches for his own blade, and with the other hand, firmly presses Bofur back down.

He may have been awake for hours, but when he had first attempted to stand, Bofur had needed support.

Fili holds his breath and listens. Footsteps, he realizes, approaching. They sound heavy, cautious – and not quite like orcs.  Yet they are definitely headed here, not merely passing by.

Balin is on the other side of the clearing in the blink of an eye. He makes no sound when he aligns his sword – and it is met by another, familiar blade.

“Thorin,” Fili breathes in sudden relief.

Balin heaves a loud sigh and puts his blade away. “Where are the…”

But before he can complete the sentence, Thorin is joined by Bifur and Dwalin. Both are silent, and Bifur’s spear is glistening with blood. There’s a small bundle wrapped in Dwalin’s arms, and Fili’s heart jumps, but before he can rise, Thorin moves forward.

“Oin,” he calls out, not caring that he also wakes all the other dwarves, “Wake up. You are needed.”

The old dwarf grumbles, but Thorin insists. His uncle does not look at Fili or Kili, and his face is white and tense. It is not a familiar expression, and deep down it scares Fili. With baited breath, he turns to look to Dwalin, who had found a soft patch of moss to settle his cargo down upon.

“Dwalin?” Fili asks, and his own voice sounds high and choked, “Is …”

He peeks over Dwalin’s shoulder as he unwraps the layers. But seeing Bilbo’s face – pale and still – only brings fear.

Were they not in time? Have they…

But Thorin is waking Oin. He would not be waking their healer if there was no hope. He would not… not wake Oin if it was futile. Though to Fili, all three look grim, and as Dwalin pulls away the layers around Bilbo’s body, the smell of burnt flesh and blood reaches Fili’s nose.

Horror-struck he steps closer. His knees feel weak, unsteady, and next to him he can hear Ori whimper, while Bombur curses softly. Fili catches a peek of blood-matted hair framing a too-pale face. Then Oin pushes through and is on his knees next to Bilbo.

“Make space,” Oin thunders, “Leave some room to breathe.”

***

Some dwarves shuffle back a little, but none dares to take their eyes of their hobbit. Bilbo remains deeply unconscious and his face is pale, except for one darkening bruise on his cheek and a trickle of dried blood in the corner of his mouth. And that is the part that worries Thorin the most – for the blood might indicate an inner injury, one that can yet be fatal.

“You and you, help me,” Oin orders, pointing at Bifur and Thorin, “the rest of you – stay back!”

The circle widens a little, then, and Bombur goes off to procure hot water. For the time being, Oin removes a flask of sharp-smelling alcohol from his belt, as well as a relatively clean piece of cloth. His first action is to check Bilbo’s back and neck for hidden injuries – Thorin is familiar with the procedure, has seen it countless times after Erebor’s fall – but that does not mean his heart does not tremble at the sight.

Though Oin finds no hidden injuries, and tilts Bilbo’s head on its right side. The left is a mess – it’s where Bilbo was first struck by Azog’s henchmen to be rendered unconscious. Dried blood has crusted skin and hair together, shaded the curls a dark rusty shade of red. And when Thorin catches sight of the maimed remains of Bilbo’s ear, his stomach twists violently.

Behind him, Gloin gasps and Nori curses. Somebody stumbles backwards, and there is the unmistakable sound of retching. Thorin feels nausea himself, yet forces himself to look. The upper part of Bilbo’s ear is gone – cut off, but not in one smooth move, but with a blunt blade, going by the serrated edges of the injury.

With a sign, Oin reaches for a cloth and water, and begins to clear the dried blood away.

Without the gore, at least the head wound does not look too grave. “Shallow,” Oin concludes, “It should heal just fine on its own.”

Which is a good prospect, but does not dispel the discomfort in Thorin’s stomach. Bilbo’s face twists as Oin washes out the wounds with alcohol – even unconscious he is in pain, and Thorin has to swallow hard against the clot stuck in his throat.

When he looks at the maimed ear, Oin frowns. “I don’t think he’ll lose his hearing in this ear,” he says, “But his sense of balance might be affected. It’s difficult to tell right now.”

“Will it grow back?” Kili asks, his voice choked – and for a moment Thorin envisions how this could have been his nephew’s fate, and the horror freezes him.

It is terrible, Thorin thinks while Oin shakes his head in response to Kili’s question, that there is a part inside him that is glad that Kili did not have to suffer this fate. That it was Bilbo who now lies here pale and still – and Thorin knows how unfair this is to their hobbit, and vows that he will not let any harm befall him in the future.

Oin has unbuttoned Bilbo’s waistcoat and shirt. Thorin sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, because the hobbit’s body is littered with dark bruises and contusions, barely a patch of skin left that is not discolored. A quick look at Oin’s face does not make Thorin’s heart feel any lighter – the absence of blood is no indication of the severity of those injuries.

“Three cracked ribs,” Oin announces, as his fingers ghost over Bilbo’s torso. Thorin thinks he can see the cracks – like all of them, the hobbit has lost weight. Enough, that now his ribs are showing and injuries to them become visible.

“The stomach’s hard,” Oin continues, “I don’t like that, but it’s too early to say whether or not it’s serious.”

There’s little to be done for the bruising. Oin has some salve to ease the pain, but they lack the bandages necessary to stabilize Bilbo’s chest. The ribs will have to heal on their own – especially, since bandages are far more necessary for other injuries. Bilbo’s wrists are a stomach-turning mess. The skin has been scraped off, and the pale white color of bone peeks through.

Oin wraps them tightly, then looks to Bilbo’s hands. They are white, slightly swollen, and if Oin’s expression is anything to go by, he does not like their state. Thorin purses his lips, recalling what he knows of this type of injury. Cut-off circulation is usually not bad for dwarves – it is uncomfortable, but needs a long time to become true damage. Men are frailer, he knows – and nobody knows how sensitive hobbit bodies react.

True horror, however, are Bilbo’s feet. The soles have been burnt, and Bifur curses loudly. Fili gasps, and Thorin feels dizzy. Only looking at the charred flesh makes him realize that it will take a long time until their hobbit can walk without pain. And this is what his decision wrought.

When Oin is done, the rags he used are blood-soaked and Thorin can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine.

“Will he be alright?” Dwalin asks, gruffly. The cease between his eyebrows betrays his concern for the smallest member of their group.

Oin sighs. “Should be, I think. With a bit of luck, he sustained no internal injuries – it will take a while for him to heal, though.”

“He lost quite a bit of blood,” Dwalin comments, and Thorin has to concur. Bilbo’s face is white, almost bloodless, and Thorin knows that a lot of the hobbit’s blood currently coats the ground, as well as his and Dwalin’s clothing. On top of it, the hobbit is small – it seems unlikely he has much blood to spare.

“Certainly,” Oin agrees, “But his pulse is steady. Blood-loss does not seem to be a problem.”

“There is a settlement not too far to the South,” Balin weighs in, “Perhaps we should go there, and rest for a few days?”

Thorin frowns. Their funds are running low, and time is running out. Yet looking at Bilbo’s still form buried underneath a pile of fur-lined coats, that still are insufficient to heal him –

“That would help, I think,” Oin comments, “My stocks are almost depleted, and we all could do with proper beds to rest in.”

Not to mention that they are in no condition to fight. There’s still traces of dried blood on Gloin’s forehead, and Kili has sat back down again, testament to lingering dizziness. Should the orcs come back –

Thorin swallows.

“We make for the town,” he agrees, and pretends not to hear the relieved sighs Fili and Balin share.

***

They are not exactly welcome at the settlement, but nobody attempts to overcharge them, and Bilbo’s condition garners concerned inquiries, and a fresh batch of bandages courtesy of the inn owner’s wife. Dori, Dwalin and Bifur have alternated in carrying the hobbit for most of the way, though many others had also volunteered.

Bilbo had woken around lunch time – long enough for Oin to pour a hot broth down the hobbit’s throat, but far from coherent or hale. His eyes remained glazed, and whatever he muttered under his breath made no sense. None of them understood the words, though Thorin thought it might have been names.

For the last hours, however, Bilbo has been unconscious.

***

When Bilbo wakes, he feels warm, almost uncomfortably so. His body is filled by a dull throb – pain, then, and he is careful not to move. Instead, he slowly opens his eyes, and tries to puzzle his fragmented memories together.

Battle, orcs, then… hearing Thorin decide for Kili, and even though Bilbo understand the decision from the depth of his heart, if he knows he wouldn’t have wished for another decision – the memory hurts, Not because of what happened after – but because it made clear that Bilbo is not one of them.

And when push comes to shove, they will not save him.

It’s a depressing line of thought, and Bilbo presses his lips together to shove it away. They came back for him, after all. Azog’s taunts cannot have been true – Thorin would not have returned for a burden.

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. He recalls the mad glint in the pale Orc’s eyes clearer than he wishes to, and the high-pitched giggles of the orcs still echo in his ears. Still can feel those hands on his skin…

He flinches, and what was a dull pain until now explodes, and it is excruciating. His entire body locks up, he can’t even breathe, and all he knows is white, hot, furious pain, radiating from the tip of his ears to the soles of his feet. Nausea rises when he recalls the smell of burnt flesh, and for some unfathomable reason he attempts to curl his toes.

The pain is terrible, and his vision vanishes for moments.

When he comes to again, somebody is in a room with him and he is gasping for air. There is a fierce ache emanating from his ribcage, that strikes whenever he tries to take a deep breath.

“Calm down, you’re safe,” somebody – Fili, Bilbo thinks – whispers, and there is a hand stroking his hair.

Bilbo tries to, but it is difficult when he can’t quite catch his breath, his body feels wrong and his vision is blurry. Though Fili keeps muttering sweet nothings, and somehow these work their magic. The blurry shapes around him turn out to be a room, sparsely furnished but comfortable.

 “Where---?” Bilbo wants to ask, but only manages a pathetic rasp.

“A settlement,” Fili replies with a gentle smile, “We’ll be staying for a few days.”

Bilbo has some memories – frozen and blurred by terror – of the battle. Of Bofur going down, and Gloin as well. And some orc holding a blade to Kili’s neck…

“Is everybody…?” he asks, fearing the worst for a moment.

“A little scratched and bruised, but most of us are fine,” Fili replies, “If you don’t mind, I’ll go and fetch them now – Oin said to do the moment you woke, and I think they’re all quite anxious to see you.”

Why would they be, Bilbo wonders while Fili gets up, walks to the door and shouts for the company. Azog’s taunts echo, though he told himself not to listen then. But now he does not know what to believe – that everybody cares seems too good to be true.

And it still feels like a dream when one after another the entire company files into the room.

Bilbo’s hands tremble, while he is carefully hugged, petted and exclaimed over. No gesture is dishonest, and the dwarves’ eyes show grave concern, and Bilbo has never felt so … coddled.

He wants to sit up, but Fili only allows him to once Oin has given his alright. Which is not given easily, but comes with many warnings and a cup of a particularly foul-smelling brew, that however, does soothe the ache in his head. There is a chance that it contains something stronger as well, since Bilbo finds his own tongue loosened after.

Eventually Oin clears his throat. “I apologize if this is uncomfortable, and I’d send away that bunch if they wouldn’t come back in through the window, but, well, as a healer I must ask if the orcs did … anything else.”

Bilbo’s smile vanishes instantly, and the experienced warriors suck in a sharp breath. Dwalin clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white, and Dori pales.

 “Anything… else?” Bilbo echoes, hesitant.

Oin swallows. “Anything that cannot be deduced from your injuries… did they make you ingest anything, for example?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “No,” he says, “That they did not.”

“Anything else?” Oin inquires. Bilbo can’t quite look at the faces of his companions – their concern is heart-wrenching, though he does not quite know what to reply.

“No, I mean, Azog… he said some nasty things. Nothing too bad, but… just some mean words,” Bilbo stutters.

“What did he say?” Kili asks, and faced with his well-meaning curiosity, Bilbo can’t turn the question away. He does not want to remember – would rather forget the soul-crushing feeling of abandonment during those dark hours – yet he cannot stay silent.

“He just taunted me,” Bilbo tells them, “Said you’d … you’re better off rid of me. That… that nobody would come…”

His throat constricts, and he can’t continue. He’d wanted to retell it light-hearted, because he ought to know better than to believe those words, ought to know better than to let them get to him. But even among the oversized, fluffy pillows and blankets he suddenly feels cold and lonely.

Because…

Because they will leave him here.

The revelation is as sudden as it is mind-numbing. But it makes sense – the dwarves’ concern for his well-being, the apologetic expressions – with his feet this injured, he won’t be able to continue on. Waiting for those burns to heal will take long, and even if he forced himself to walk, he would slow them all down.

So, in the end, do Azog’s words come true? Is he a burden, will he be left behind in this strange town so far from all he has ever known?

“Master Baggins! Bilbo!” and that is Bofur shouting, and very carefully a hand settles on Bilbo’s shoulder. He flinches, violently, but it rips apart the dark maelstrom in his mind.

“What?” he blinks up at Bofur, wide-eyed.

“Are we exhausting you?” Bofur asks, gently, “Shall we leave you to rest?”

“No, I’ll… I’m alright,” Bilbo says, even though he can feel himself trembling.

“Then what is on your mind?”

Bilbo swallows. And then forces himself to seek the truth. “When are you leaving?”

“Leaving?” Bofur echoes. Behind him, Fili chimes in: “Not for some time.”

“At least not until you’ve recovered a bit,” Oin states.

It warms Bilbo’s heart, truly, but: “You don’t need to wait for me. I know time is running out – so just go on.”

“You know, time is not that short. And the rest of us does appreciate this opportunity to rest as well,” Nori says.

“You don’t honestly think we’ll be leaving you here?” Dwalin asks.

Bilbo ducks his head, and a din falls over the room. “Really?” Kili echoes, shocked, “You can’t …”

He should have kept his mouth shut, Bilbo thinks. This is an awkward situation, one he would rather have avoided. And he does not want the dwarves to feel guilty for leaving him behind, not when there is no other choice.

Thorin clears his throat. “We will not be leaving you behind, Master Baggins,” he states, and immediately raises a hand to forestall any protests, “I am aware your feet need time to recover – therefore, we will carry you as long as necessary.”

Bilbo can only gape. Carry him? “But…”

“Don’t worry,” Dori adds, “To us you’re no real weight.”

And Bilbo, tentatively, smiles 

***

It is later – once darkness has fallen outside – that Thorin approaches Bilbo alone. The leader of their company looks weary and burdened, and initially he observes Bilbo’s every reaction closely. The close scrutiny makes Bilbo uncomfortable, especially since the encounter with Azog has left him unusually jumpy.

After Bilbo flinches at another shifting shadow, Thorin sighs deeply. “I do owe you more than an apology, and I don’t quite know how or what to say.”

Bilbo blinks at him, surprised.

“I… my decision … I… there was no real choice,” Thorin stutters, face flushed.

Perhaps it is still due to Oin’s brew, that Bilbo remains calm. “I know,” he says.

“I never meant to leave you to Azog!” Thorin exclaims, “I didn’t … I didn’t….”

But his good intentions amount to little, when both of them recall that Azog originally traded in lives. And that Thorin chose death for Bilbo.

“You had to make a choice,” Bilbo tells him, “I understand.”

He does, even though the words taste like ash on his tongue.

“I about killed you!” Thorin yells, “Don’t tell me you understand! After everything you….!”

Bilbo twitches at the noise, and has to unclench his hands. Next to the bad, Thorin is shaking, and his eyes are red-rimmed.

“But you would make the same decision again, would you not?” Bilbo asks. Thorin pales, looking momentarily like a fish out of water, and that is all the answer Bilbo needs.

“You would,” he tells Thorin, “And I understand. Kili is family – most of you are, I think, and then all of you are dwarves. I know those patterns.”

There is no need to add that he knows them all from the outside-looking-in position. Ever since his parents died, he has never been first in the circle of affections of anybody, really. It’s bitter, but Bilbo has taught himself to accept it.

A hand wraps around his shoulder, and when Bilbo glances up, Thorin has settled on the bed next to him.

“I would,” he confesses, “But that does not make it right. You know, they all yelled at me that I should have found another way… But I failed, and even if you refuse to blame me, I know I did. And you… don’t deserve that. After everything you have done for me and my kin, you don’t deserve to be the one standing alone.”

And very, very gently he draws Bilbo into his arms. The embrace is warm, smothering, and even with his mind reeling, Bilbo allows himself to fall into it. It’s so much more welcoming than the feeling of cold orc fingers on his skin.

He shudders, and Thorin’s arms tighten. “I have greatly wronged you, and whatever you desire in compensation shall be yours if I have the power to make it so,” Thorin whispers into Bilbo’s hair, “My life is yours, for I would have so easily traded yours away.”

It’s more than Bilbo would have ever asked for, and he wants to tell Thorin, but rather than speak, he stays in the embrace. Perhaps that gesture will tell Thorin that he still has Bilbo’s trust, that a little kindness is all Bilbo requires.

Eventually, a knock on the door has them separate.

“You alright?“ Bofur asks, glancing inside. Behind him, Bilbo can hear the rest of the company whispering.

“Yes, fine,” the hobbit replies. His voice might be a little hoarse, but that is to be expected. Exhaustion is heavy, though the feeling of marrow-deep loneliness has vanished, replaced by comfortable warmth.

“That’s good,” Bofur sounds relieved and steps into the room. He does, however, not march up to Bilbo’s bed, but heads for Thorin who sits on the other side.

Before either can ask, there’s the sound of a fist hitting flesh, and in the blink of an eye Thorin and the chair have toppled to the ground. “Oi!” Dwalin shouts from outside, and there’s gasping and tittering, and Thorin slowly sits up, a hand pressed to his cheek and his eyes wide.

“Wh- what—why did you?” Bilbo sputters, leaning over to check if Thorin is alright, then turns large, confused eyes on Bofur.

There is no smile on Bofur’s face, and his expression is unusually dark. His fist is still clenched threateningly. Bilbo falls silent.

“That,” Bofur announces coldly to the exiled king, “Is for abandoning out burglar.”

And that stops even Dwalin in his charge. The darkness on Bofur’s face is foreboding and full of anger. But then, just as unexpectedly as Bofur’s punch was, the dwarf relaxes his expression – doesn’t smile, though – and holds out a hand.

“Though you did get him back,” Bofur tells Thorin, who rather hesitatingly takes the offered hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet. Bofur claps his shoulder. “I’m not forgiving you,” he warns Thorin, “But since we’re all alive – Bilbo willing – we can put it behind us.”

Bilbo nods. Discussing this has already tired him out, and he does not want to drag the memories of feeling so terribly lonely to the forefront of his mind again. “Let’s,” he breathes, and sees the dwarves still lingering in the doorway smile in agreement.

For a moment, Thorin looks overwhelmed. Then he lets go of a deep breath, and it looks as if a huge burden has been taken from his shoulders.

“Well, if that is acceptable,” he says, and turns to Bilbo. Ever so gently, he takes one of Bilbo’s heavily bandaged hands into his, “My promise to you will stay valid, though. I …”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Let’s put this behind us. And just … just move on.”

He knows that it won’t ward off the nightmares. Nor will words heal his feet any quicker. But rather than move on with a cloud of self-recrimination and guilt hanging over Thorin’s head, he would have his friends be cheerful. And if, in turn, they will stay by his side – it is all he ever hoped for.

_Fin_


	18. Vive la revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smaug comes to Erebor, not as a dragon, but as somebody with ideas of justice and equality. And in a kingdom ruled by a gold-sick monarch, those ideas find fruitful ground. It is not long, until they have spread all over Middle Earth, and even the Shire finds itself caught in the conflict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character death, violence and drama. This has a happy ending, but well... 
> 
> Further note: this is a bit different from my usual writing style. So it may not be everyone's cup of tea. 
> 
> This resulted from a very long flight including Les Miserables and The Hobbit and some napping during turbulence. (this may just confirm my suspicion that airplane food does strange things to my mind)

Among Middle Earth’s kingdoms Erebor has always been the richest. It is built on foundations of gold and precious stones; even mithril is plentiful enough to be traded on common markets. Houses are decorated with rubies and sapphires, gold is spun into clothes and diamonds fashion hair ornaments – this glittering kingdom has long been the center of admiration and jealousy of all surrounding lands.

Thranduil of Mirkwood will pay his tribute, as will the King of Rohan and the Stewards of Gondor. Distant lords may grumble, but they all know that Erebor is unsurpassed in strength. Weapons forged from mithril will not rust. Soldiers paid an abundance of gold will fight for the kingdom’s cause.

Erebor grows in riches and in power. The surrounding lands, though, begin to drain. Food prices soar – the kingdom is voracious.

“And yet,” says Smaug, a stranger come from the far east in front of a congregation of farmers and workers with haggard faces and dirt-stained clothes on Dale’ central square, “Golden coin is not food. Whatever they pay you, they will pay more for that loaf of bread you wanted to buy.”

Voices cheer in agreement.

King Thror, however, does not know of this. He is deaf to the whispers, blind to the desolation spreading before Erebor. His eyes are fixed on the glow of his gold and riches, and above all of them, the Arkenstone. His son’s eyes yet stray away and sometimes halt the ambitious councilors. At other times Thrain’s word is not enough.

It is not enough to stop yet another rise in taxes.

It is not enough to stop an increase of the prices for gemstones.

“Our smithies have shut down,” Bard, a man of Dale proclaims, “Our craftsmen have to forsake their crafts – for they can no longer afford the materials they need to work with. Our borders lie defenseless, for we cannot forge weapons. And even if we could – Erebor will easily outbid whatever price we offer for iron and copper.”

The voices that join his outcries rise in volume.  This cheer is fed by anger and malcontent.

“Henceforth,” the message the King of Erebor has distributed throughout Middle Earth, “the tenth shall be paid in corn or stock, in order to put no further strain on civic savings.”

The Thain of the Shire glances at the fellow clan heads assembled with him. They are far from Erebor and have until now only paid tribute to be left alone – their land is plentiful, and nobody ever demanded to control what they deemed to be their tenth.

Yet now “corn prices have risen again,” the Master of Buckland reports, “In Erebor, a loaf of bread may sell for a gold coin or more. Already the demands of Bree are higher than what we can deliver.”

Deliver without cutting into the Shire’s private stocks, that is. The hobbits of the Shire are helpful, but will look after their own first. Nobody else looks out for them, after all.

“Well, let them have their tenth, I say,” says the white-haired head of the Bracegirdle clan, “We don’t want trouble – let’s just send them enough so they will not grow suspicious.”

“It is risky,” Bungo Baggins weighs in. But he, as everybody else knows, they have few other options.

***

“They are calling him the Necromancer,” prince Frerin tells his siblings. Neither of the three likes Thror’s latest advisor, the man (though he seems no man either, but for all that he is neither dwarf nor elf, they do not know what else to call him), “He seems to think that ruling will work best once all subjects have been starved to death.”

With the steady increase in prices, now even Erebor’s poorest are experiencing a shortage in supplies. Though, much to Thror’s content, with the Necromancer’s advice, Erebor’s treasuries are filling up further.

***

And then, all of a sudden, the citizens of Dale rise up against Erebor. Cries for change ring through the air, citizens block the roads and for once raise their cries for equality and justice. They are no longer willing to continue – and change suddenly appears immediate.

But some hunger for more. Blood is spilled. The Master’s head put up on a spike. Barricades block the streets. And then a man with dead eyes puts a spear through Frerin’s chest.

Erebor’s vengeance is terrible.

Dale burns for three days. Most of Dale’s citizens perish, and those that flee know they can nevermore return. A refugee camp by the shore of the great lake springs up, but it is poor and ramshackle, and Erebor refuses all aid as long as Bard’s and Smaug’s heads are not delivered.

***

“Mad,” Dis whispers to her remaining brother, her eyes anxiously tracing the footsteps of her two children. Her husband died in Dale, though rumor has it that he died fighting for the wrong side.

“He’s gone insane,” she tells Thorin. Her brother frowns – she knows he shares her opinion. But what can they do, when even their father’s words fail to reach the King?

And looking at her children, while the world grows darker around them, Dis knows she cannot stay.

***

Erebor’s rulers may not know that the Shire is extraordinarily fertile and would perhaps never have realized that they never received the tribute demanded – but others know, and Azog has his own ambitions and grudges. Mostly he hates that patch of peaceful green land.

And informing Erebor of the betrayal grants him a permit for a punishment expedition.

What resistance the hobbits put up is laughable. The orcs enjoy themselves running some done, others they slaughter or torture. Some they use for their enjoyment. Enslavement is spoken of, too.

And then one tiny hobbit lass – one Belladonna Baggins shoves a rusty fishknife through Azog’s throat with fire in her eyes. It does not bring back her husband – Bungo, one of the first the orcs had publicly executed – but it saves her son, her gardener, her tenants and many other hobbits.

“We will not be slaves to anyone,” she proclaims, “We are hobbits of the Shire and we protect what is ours!”

That night the Shire burns all contracts with Erebor together with the corpses of orcs.

***

The night news of the battle in the Shire reach Erebor is the first time a tumult breaks out on the markets of Erebor’s lower levels. Thorin later learns that a boy – an orphan without relatives or income – had lost a hand for stealing a loaf of bread. The watching crowd had protested the unforgiving stance of the judges – and risen up in protest.

Quelling the protest of half-starved people is not difficult. But Thorin who can recall a time when he himself could stroll through this market without being glared at is uneasy.

His grandfather remains deaf.

***

News of the events in the Shire spread. Gondor and Rohan seceded quickly. They are too far and too strong to fear retribution from Erebor. And while the lack of access to Erebor’s markets may hurt, Gondor has open harbors and Rohan will instead trade with the Shire and look further to the South.

And Rivendell, backed by the White Council, demands an explanation. Did Erebor truly intend to enslave the hobbits? Were there truly orders given to slaughter even the youngest child?

Rivendell may not be a military stronghold, or even an economic power. But the White Council is made up from wizards and some of the oldest beings to walk on Middle Earth. Not to mention those that bear rings of power. Even Erebor, where one ring is held, will be careful not to anger those.

***

“I cannot watch while the weakest are starving and we abuse our power,” Thorin’s hands shake as he reads the letter, “I cannot be on a council that brings such evil into the world – I will not have part in this any longer.”

The handwriting of his old friend is unusually shaky and smudged. But then, those words were written after Balin had drunk the poison already.

Thorin sighs and gently brushes a hand over the lifeless figure’s head resting on the desk. The body is pale, the lips are blue – Thorin knew it to be too late the moment he entered.

“I hope you are happy wherever you now are,” he mutters.

***

 “We did never intend to extend any tyranny,” Thrain, heir to Erebor, declares as he readies for departure, “Nor do we advocate greed. I will find out what happened. I will make things right.”

No council will sway him, and Thrain’s promise echoes the desire of what is fast becoming a majority. Erebor’s nobility still dwells in luxury, but its craftsmen and tinkers are becoming thinner at an alarming rate. Already, reports of dwarves starving amass.

Others leave Erebor for Laketown. That small settlement of those that dared to defy Erebor, the survivors of Dale. Already the Necromancer is warning Thror of them, telling him to strike ere they grow too strong.

Strategically, Thorin knows that he is right. Laketown may pose a danger to his kingdom.

But can he truly begrudge them whatever actions they may take?

All those contemplations disappear when Thrain fails to reach Rivendell. His entire escort just vanishes into thin air, and Thorin cannot deny that by now – with his brother dead, his father perhaps as well and his sister gone into the unknown – he is afraid.

***

Laws grow stricter.

The air grows tense.

Belladonna Baggins is assassinated.

***

And then Laketown rises. Trade with the south has provided the materials Erebor no longer delivers. Ideals and dreams give courage to a movement that lacks dearly in materials, but in their cries Thorin finds many long-forgotten words that once Erebor’s intellectuals proudly wielded.

He knows what will happen now before it does.

Now Erebor’s intellectuals have moved to Laketown, advocate equality, justice and freedom – and are echoed not only by those that survived the terror wrought upon Dale, but also by those that still live in Erebor; and not just those that struggle to make ends meet.

When the palace is overrun, Thorin recognizes many faces. There is young Ori, one of Balin’s former pupils, Bifur, who used to sell toys to the palace. Their faces, now, for the first time in what feels like forever, look hopeful.  He cannot fault them.

And Thorin, when Dwalin tugs on his arm, urging him to flee, hesitates.

Before his eyes the palace is set on fire. The Arkenstone torn from its place. Nobles scatter, the kingdom crumbles. And then Smaug takes charge.

His first act is to behead the old king.

For weeks a new hope blooms in Erebor. People remain poor and food remains scarce, but now there is a silver lining to their suffering. The mad King is dead, their new leaders promise equality and justice and at least they’re all starving together.

The possessions of nobles are seized – and those that do not enthusiastically agree with the goals of the revolution are done away with. Bard is not happy with these proceedings, yet he does not dare speak up against Smaug.

Not as it was him who allowed the crown prince and his bodyguard to flee, for he knows they could have snuffed the revolution earlier, and still could have commanded the army to fire into the uprising. And all that the revolution will offer them is death, for naught but being the sons of their fathers.

Bard thinks this is not fair – and didn’t Smaug invoke equal rights for all? How come he is unwilling to grant them to those that may be situated among their enemies?

So he lets Thorin and Dwalin vanish into the night, and secretly wishes them all the best.

For them, the world is not a friendly place, either.

***

News of the successful revolt in Erebor spread across Middle Earth. Soon enough, others attempt to imitate the movement – but in Rohan nobility has never considered itself above its citizens and no real animosity has ever grown, and in Gondor it is another enemy that holds all attention.

Orcs do not care for revolutions. Neither do they care for noble ideals, enlightening ideas and dreams of fairness. They rather care for riches and food and bloodshed, and are willing to work for those that will provide.

Which includes the revolution.

When it becomes obvious that ideals enough are not enough to spread the fire through Middle Earth, Smaug uses Erebor’s riches to hire mercenaries and spies, to spread unrest and ideas and to support the opposition where it is too weak.

“We will change the order, even if we need the sword to do it,” Smaug proclaims, “It will take sacrifices, but in the end, we will live in the land we have always dreamed of.”

Bard does not think it likely. Almost daily, heads roll in Erebor and Laketown, and many more distant towns have changed their allegiance. The orcs scare them. The fever does, too.

***

Thorin and Dwalin wander. They keep their heads down, their treasures hidden. A skilled smith is always welcome, even where dwarves are eyed with distrust.

Though as around them the world continues to fall apart, the requests for manual labor dwindle. Strangers are not welcome, and the two are turned away from more than one town. Still, they continue on their way to the Ered Luin.

They would have made for the Iron Hills, but “the roads will be watched,” Dwalin had said, “They expect you to go there – they know Dain would come to your aid. Only death lies that way.”

So their path leads them west, past desolation and devastation, across rivers and ranges, and Thorin thinks that he will have ask Dain to interfere anyway, and pray that it will be enough.

***

“The revolution may have been quelled,” Smaug tells his army of orcs and mercenaries the evening before they set out for the Shire, “But it has not been quenched! We will aid the poor and oppressed in rising against their tormentors and bring justice to those that until now have been above it!”

Slaughter them, Bard thinks, and take their belongings – not so much their riches, but the Shire’s fertility has become known, and with winter on the horizon, even Smaug has to look for a way to feed his men and Laketown.

“He wants not to liberate the Shire,” Bard tells a few of his old compatriots late at night, “He wants to enslave it.”

Because many have by now grown disenchanted with Smaug who brought terror instead of freedom, many nod in agreement. And none are surprised when their meeting is busted, and a day later – with Smaug as their sole juror – they are condemned to death.

With Bard’s head on a pike, few dare to protest against Smaug. But once again, a slow exodus begins, with those that once came to Laketown to fight for their ideals now moving on elsewhere or returning home, disappointed and afraid of what their enthusiasm has wrought.

***

“Thorin!” Dis exclaims, rushes forward and throws her arms around her brother and his former bodyguard, “Dwalin! You’re here! I didn’t … I heard….”

She is unable to speak the words. News from Erebor have always left her disheartened, to the point that she sometimes wishes to just let go of these memories. Beautiful memories of warmth, love and laughter do not go well with news of desolation, destruction and slaughter. And she does not want to know how many more beloved people the kingdom cost her.

Yet now, by some miracle, her brother has been spared. Even though he looks haggard and worn, he is nonetheless alive.

And when he eventually smiles, she sees that his heart is still the same.

***

Bilbo is awoken in the middle of the night by his gardener.

“You need to hide,” he is told before he is truly awake, “There’re orcs in the Shire! They’re killing all the gentlefolks!”

And before Bilbo quite knows what has happened, he finds himself locked into one of the secret corn stores the hobbits have built under their hills after Azog’s first expedition. He’s dropped in with a bundle of blankets, a change of clothes and that old ancestral sword that used to hang over their fireplace.

He is afraid, and all he is told is to stay down and hide – because he’s too young to fight, because he’s popular with his tenants, because he is the son of Belladonna Baggins, the Shire’s own hero, and because the forage is led by Azog’s son, Bolg.

Then the sounds of fighting are joined by a familiar child’s voice crying.

And history, ironically enough, repeats itself as Bilbo stabs Bolg in defense of his gardener’s son, and the hired troops begin to falter. It’s not a clear victory, though, because there are other leaders and the second half of payment will only be delivered once their work is done.

Also, because Bolg’s mace catches Bilbo across the chest. He will die painfully without proper treatment, and eventually, Drogo Baggins braves the road to the Ered Luin with a cart his injured cousin, and a fierce Lobelia for company.

***

The dwarves of the Ered Luin are quick to come to the Shire’s defense.

“We trade with them for food,” Dis tells Thorin, “And they don’t overcharge, even though everybody knows they could sell their wares for twice the price a bit further east.”

It is also the place where the dwarves send their few children to play and trade and grow. Hobbits never do any worse than eye strangers with suspicion, and are willing to pay a fair price for metal wares. The inhabitants of the Ered Luin have grown protective of the Shire, to say the least. 

Both, Dwalin and Thorin then, join the armed forces of the Ered Luin. It does not take much to chase away or slay the remaining orcs and mercenaries – most are too fond of their lives in the end to keep fighting when faced with a fresh, well-fed army.

Still, the Shire has sustained losses, and most faces Thorin sees look afraid.

***

A rare free day, few weeks after the battle, sees Thorin accompany his nephews to Hobbiton’s market. He is surprised to see that, a few charred ruins aside, most damage has already been cleaned up or is in the process of being done away with. The hobbits, now, seem cheerful, singing and humming and Thorin has his sword drawn when he hears shouting – only to, moments later, realize that all he heard was a lady yelling at her husband to “clean your feet before you come in, how many times do I have to tell you?!”

The sky is blue, the air clear and warm and the landscape green and gentle. Before Thorin’s eyes spreads a dream-like land, one that consists of blooming fields and quaint, peaceful settlements and he cannot understand how such a place can exist.

Hobbits chuckle at his confusion, and would rather discuss the weather or the harvest rather than political ideals. They have found a system that works for gentility – and Thorin is somewhat surprised that Bilbo Baggins, so beloved by all – is actually a landowner – and like everyone else cares for little but good food, merriment and a warm hearth to return to.

Thorin, raised to tales of glory and noble deeds, cannot understand how this can be enough, but he envies the hobbits for their content lives.

***

But hobbits, too, must talk politics. Gerontius Took, the latest Thain of the Shire, joins a strategy meeting in the Ered Luin, accompanied by the heads of the major clans – among them one Bilbo Baggins, who still is pale and leaning on a crutch.

It is the first time Thorin meets him that he is conscious.

“Dain Ironfist of the Iron Hills,” Thorin tells them, “Would offer us military support. However, they are short in supplies, especially food stores he cannot provide.”

“Many of the dwarves here would follow you, Prince Thorin,” Gloin, one of the dwarves that left Erebor when Thorin was still young, says.

There’s some whispering among the hobbits. “Prince Thorin of Erebor?” the Thain asks, and Thorin can see mistrust in his eyes. It is warranted, he thinks, for all the trouble has originated in Erebor.

“Yes, but he has no hand in what has been done,” a third party – Gandalf who is here on behalf of the White Council, says, “King Thror was led into madness by a dark wizard – the Necromancer, I believe he was called.”

“And Smaug is a calamity of his own,” a man mutters. He is one of the Dunedin, and apparently of some importance, though nobody is certain exactly how.

“Very well,” the Thain says, “We are rather interested in restoring our safety and peace – for that we could supply food for an army.”

Thorin wonders how he can say that without knowing just how large this army will be. From the intelligence provided through Nori – the spy of uncertain loyalties, once planted by Thrain –, the number of Smaug’s supporters is dwindling. They do have access to Erebor’s armory, but they have a hard time trading for food.

“We will wait out the winter,” it is eventually decided, “For cold and starvation will weaken them further. Once spring comes, we march.”

***

“I would not ask this of you if there was another choice, but we need to know what happens at Erebor,” the Thain tells Bilbo. His grandson remains pale and thin – and he already regrets what he must ask of him, for he knows it will not help him heal.

“You are the only one knowledgeable enough to understand what consequence any development at Erebor may spell for us. You know our stores and resources, as well as our customs and I think most hobbits here will trust you to make the right decisions on their behalf,” the Thain continues, “You know how to defend yourself – if it comes to that, which I hope it doesn’t. Ered Luin has promised their protection.”

There’s a second thought in there, one that is all too clear to Bilbo. He has no spouse and children waiting for him; barely any family at all. If something happens to him, not too many will grieve.

And yet, the pain in his grandfather’s eyes is honest.

“I will go,” Bilbo tells him, and musters a smile.

***

It is a long journey from the Shire to Erebor with much ill news to be found on the way there. Yet, at the same time, Thorin learns to smile again.

Against his wish, Dis and his nephews – young men now – are riding with them. They are no experienced warriors, they should not be here, but their antics bring a smile to Thorin’s face. They also take the hobbit under their wing.

And, to Thorin’s surprise, Dwalin joins them in this endeavor.

Bilbo, at first, is wary – a lone hobbit in this company of dwarves and men –, but as the days pass his face regains some color, and he has learned to dodge Kili’s hugs, and brace himself for the shoulder pats Fili gives.

In the evening, Dwalin instructs him how to use a sword, and at some point Fili and Kili will start to give their commentary. Which inevitably has Dis rise and challenge her sons to best her.

Gandalf will sit under a tree, watch and smoke his pipe, and Gloin next to him mutter over expenses.

It doesn’t feel as if they’re going to war, Thorin thinks. They might die – they don’t know what they will find –

And yet he hasn’t felt happier in a long time.

*** 

Their arrival causes an uproar. Smaug and his leaders flee Laketown and barricade themselves in Erebor, even before Dain and Thorin can put forward their demands.

“We will not give up what we fought for!” Smaug exclaims before the amassed citizens. All look pale and hungry; their clothes gem-studded cast-offs rather than fitted coats.

“I do not want to attack,” Dain confesses that evening.

Dwalin snorts. “It’d be slaughter.”

Thorin is silent. But if he wins back his kingdom by slaughter, he knows he will not have any grateful subjects to welcome him. Already, there are far fewer of them than there ought to be.

It was a brutal winter.

When they come to renew their terms, Smaug meets them with armed bodyguards. “You would have us abandon what we fought for,” he proclaims and there are many, dwarves and men, hanging fearfully onto his words, “Once again let us starve?!”

“And are you not starving already?” Bilbo urges his mount forward. He is aware that he does not look very impressive – a hobbit on a pony never is, no matter how many fur coats he wears – but he will hold his head high and argue his point.

And there is more than one point he intends to take up with Smaug.

“From what I see, Master Smaug, you have not improved, but rather exacerbated the situation of those you proclaim to protect,” Bilbo says, “And yet, only your coat appears to fit.”

“What would you know, creature?” Smaug hisses back.

Bilbo coolly replies. “A creature, am I? Are we hobbits not equal then? Is that why you sent Bolg to slaughter my kind?”

The whispers have died down. Now all attention has come to focus on Smaug and Bilbo. The leader of the revolution hisses in anger, but finds no words to say.

“Was not your revolution supposed to bring peace to all?” Bilbo accuses, “Then why is its pathway covered in blood? Why do your citizens fear your laws? Why is it that you need violence to support your cause and guarantee your rule? Where is your equality in that?”

“And what would you know of ruling?” Smaug asks, seething, “What would you know of those just waiting for a chance to reinstall themselves, of those hungering for power without a care about those slaughtered along their way?”

“Like you would have slaughtered my kind for not supporting your revolution?” Bilbo questions.

“That madness for power, Smaug,” Dain says, “has long since become your own. Look around – those who follow you now do because they fear you, not out of love or loyalty.”

He clears his throat and steps forward. “To each and every resident of Laketown and Erebor I would guarantee safe passage shall they desire for peace. I do not ask them to fight for me, I merely asks them not to take up arms against my men. Nor will my men hinder those that wish to leave.”

***

Smaug does not wish for anybody to leave. But he cannot keep the gates shut, not with many desiring to accept Dain’s offer, and his mercenaries nervous in face of the well-armed and well-fed army waiting just outside.

When Dain eventually decides to march, they meet no resistance. Rather, in Laketown some children shyly wave at them from the windows of depilated houses. And once the food is carried into the market square, a cheer rises up.

The mountain capitulates without even one drop of blood being spilled. It is pitiful, Dain thinks, that it is only this late that a peaceful resolution arises. How many more lives could have been saved had Smaug capitulated before winter came?

“His head is yours,” he tells Thorin.

His cousin remains grieved and solemn in manner. Instead of drawing his sword, he turns to the curious onlookers. “He shall have a fair trial.”

Later, when more dwarves and men are listening, Thorin continues, “I am aware that once this revolution was not without cause. I watched my grandfather succumb to madness and Erebor fall into ruin. I have known starvation and poverty, injustice and contempt – and I wish them onto no one."

***

Rebuilding Erebor is not easy, though Dale is worse of. Fractionalization and distrust run deep through these societies, and old crimes are quickly brought to surface. But how shall they deal with what was stolen legally under another reign? Shall they take the stolen materials that now provide for a family’s livelihood?

Thorin wants to despair.

And yet, when he sees his nephews wandering the markets, joking and laughing with the merchants, he knows he has to see this through. Erebor may not regain its former glory, but he intends to leave them a united, healthy kingdom.

It turns out that Bilbo is the key. The hobbit is good at gauging legal matters and settling arguments. But most of all, his continued presence ensures a generous supply of food from the Shire. Thorin hastens to pay, but on one occasion he has had two gold chests returned to him simply because they were “too heavy and cumbersome to carry”.

His people may not trust Thorin easily – he is considered fair, but too many recall his grandfather’s madness and fear he may fall prey to it, too – but they love Bilbo for his willingness to share coin and food for nothing more than good company and shared happiness.

***

In the end, Bilbo stays.

At first, it is out of necessity. The situation is tense, and constantly in danger of dissolving into violence. Filled stomachs do much good in diffusing the tension – and Bilbo now is generally considered the one responsible for the food supply.

Surprisingly, it is not difficult. The Shire is far, so initially he is afraid to have to seek out closer providers. Yet, all are open to negotiations and Erebor’s gold is welcome as payment. He does not consider his duties difficult – or impossible to be taken on by any other.

It is weird, Bilbo thinks, he could no return home – he has done his duty, has seen the contracts signed and sealed. Yet, all that awaits in the Shire is that empty smial filled with bittersweet memories and relatives that may mean well, but remain distant.

Here, in this far away kingdom that is so different from his home he has finally found his welcome. He is no longer considered odd, nor does he remain alone. But he is beloved by the people, and – more than anyone – by the king.

_fin_


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Kili accidentally lose Bilbo in the woods. And feel quite guilty when the hobbit ends up injured due to their oversight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This lovely prompt came from Syxx - I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: gore, violence and blood. This has a happy ending, but the way there is rather bloody, so please proceed with caution.

They don’t actually mean to lose the hobbit.

After the encounter with the trolls Fili has sworn to be careful, though for once the forest next to their camp seems truly harmless. They have learned to watch their ponies – and they are calmly grazing on the open plain tonight. Gandalf has left them for a reason or another – wizarding business, and they shouldn’t expect him back very soon – especially not to save them from trolls again.

At least they have it easy finding food; the woods in these parts are dense and rich in game and fruit. It will just take some time gathering the ingredients for a hearty dinner – and they all desire one after a hard day of riding.

Tonight, Kili, Fili and Bilbo have been sent out to forage. They set out in a fairly good mood.

“Let’s split up here,” Fili suggests after they have left their camp ground a good way behind, “It’ll be easier to sneak up on prey alone.”

Bilbo does not look happy with the idea, but he agrees. “If you don’t mind, though; I’ll look for berries and mushrooms.”

“’course not,” Kili easily replies, “But let’s make a wager – who do you think will bring back more game – me or Fili?”

“Err,” Bilbo looks between them, “I don’t know?”

“Just take a guess. If you win, you get first dibs on the meat of whatever it is,” Kili urges on.

Bilbo looks between them. Kili has a bow and arrows – perhaps the more obvious choice – and yet Fili looks rather confident on his own.

“Well, let’s meet back here before it’s completely dark, then,” Fili says – Bilbo seems uncomfortable, and Kili is likely to badger him until he answers. While the hobbit appears to have forgiven them for the troll incident, Fili thinks it would be rather unkind to try his patience again.

And Thorin’s mood is bound to sour further should dinner be late.

***

The forest floor is covered in leaves and small bushes, darkening the uneven ground considerably. It takes Bilbo a moment to spot the first mushroom patch, but after that, he knows what to look for and it’s easy work. He hums an old tune under his breath – if he doesn’t think, he can pretend he’s back in the Shire, looking for mushrooms as he has done on many an afternoon. 

That there will be a warm home waiting for him, and not a company of dwarves that – well, he can’t call them unfriendly, because everybody knows that dwarves are gruff, but their treatment of him feels quite cold at times. Not all of them – Bofur, Fili and Kili certainly try to make him feel welcome, Ori is curious and Balin is willing to educate him in cultural matters – and yet…

It remains that he is no dwarf and therefore nobody is certain if he is truly a member of their company, or just some odd afterthought.

When he looks up, it is almost completely dark. The sun is behind the horizon, and the sky overhead is a smoky blue with the first stars growing visible. His heart skips a beat, and with a silent wish not to prove himself further incompetent by losing track of the time, he hurries back to their meeting point.

It’s empty – and at first Bilbo is relieved. He isn’t late.

But the forest around him grows darker with each passing moment. What if he is indeed late? So late that the others moved on without him?

***

Hunting takes patience, but tonight both brothers are in luck. They do meet up on chance, both earlier and at a different place – and, looking at what they got – decided that it’s more than enough to feed the entire company.

Contend and hungry, they make their way back to camp.

***

Bilbo tells himself to calm down. The brothers will show up any moment – they are not particular punctual, so he should not worry. They will not abandon him – they …

Something rustles in the trees, but no dwarf emerges, and abruptly Bilbo’s heart is in his throat. The peaceful atmosphere suddenly seems menacing, and if the dwarves were close, he ought to at least hear them.

But he is alone, and it’s almost completely dark now.

A shudder runs down his spine. Maybe more time passed than he thought? Perhaps the brothers have waited for him quite a while, and only then left because he failed to show. Bilbo wouldn’t blame them, he dislikes unpunctuality, too.

So he ought to head back and apologize.

Bilbo takes a deep breath to calm himself. It isn’t completely dark yet – at least the sky overhead is blue, not inky black. The darkness between the trees, though, is foreboding. He swallows, turns – and realizes he has no idea where to go.

Don’t panic, he tells himself, just be rational and keep your head – as his mother taught him. He could certainly figure it out. He knows they didn’t walk too long into the woods, and he remembers in what direction each of them left. So roughly – if he turns right, he should at least be vaguely headed in the direction of their camp.

The problem with hiking through unfamiliar woods at night, however, is that time passes differently. What was a beautiful area at day grows strange and threatening. Each rustle causes him to flinch, the trees look unfamiliar, and with every step Bilbo is less and less certain he made the correct decision.

And how long has he been walking? Shouldn’t he be hearing his companions by now? Or at least be out of the wood? The trees do look rather unfamiliar. Did they pass this spot on their way in? Has the ground always been this uneven?

Hobbit feet don’t mind uneven ground or sharp stones, but in the darkness he barely sees the roots sticking up or the holes in the ground. Going is slow and unsteady, and Bilbo’s heart is in his throat.

Then wolves howl.

***

The howling picks up while the company is eagerly awaiting dinner. A hearty smell fills the air, and Kili’s stomach is grumbling in anticipation. Nearby, Bofur is whittling away, while the rest of the company has taken the chance to sit down and relax.

Wolves don’t pose a serious danger for a group of dwarves. When the noise first sounds, they all do stop for a moment and listen – wolves are no danger; wargs are another category entirely – but the high howls in the air are definitely wolfish.

A sigh of relief escapes from Fili’s lips and he leans back against a rock. Dwalin loosens his grip on his axes a bit.

“I think we’ll be alright tonight,” Balin comments, “This part of the mountains is fairly safe.”

It’s too far from Moria and too close to Rivendell to be hounded by orcs or goblins. They are already high up in the mountains, and the access to the area is limited to a few, steep paths – wargs will avoid these, as will most other travelers.

And their campfire ought to keep the wolves away.

“Stew’s done,” Bombur announces.

Kili jumps to his feet, while Bofur turns to glance back the woods. “Where’s Bilbo?”

***

Bilbo presses himself flat against the tree and dares not to breathe. The wolves are close, close enough he can hear them pad through the bushes. Their howls are too close to comfort, and Bilbo is too terrified to jump – and that saves him.

He knows he must get away, he knows he ought get out of here as fast as possible – or climb a tree, but his head’s in an uproar, his body barely moving and he feels as if he was suffocating. It’s as if his heart wants to tear itself out of his chest, while at the same time everything feels odd, surreal.

And he can’t stop his mind.

He ought to search a tree to climb – instead he thinks about how cold the night air feels, how much like then, when the world was black and white, snow and the darkness of the trees and the encroaching night.

It had been cold then, so bitterly, bitterly cold, and he’d felt so alone, even though his mother had held his hand. But there had been nobody but them on the snow-covered path, that beautiful path downhill from Bag End that cut through the fields, a patch of forest and was Bilbo’s favorite in spring.

But winter brought early nights and they were out too late, much too late, and Belladonna hurried them and yet they were barely out of the woods when the howling started behind them.

Bilbo remembers telling himself that it’d be alright, they are out of the woods, the wolves will not follow them – but they do.

A branch cracks just next to him. Bilbo flinches, blood draining from his head.

There is a pair golden eyes staring at him, no more than an arm’s length away.

***

“Didn’t he go with you?” Bofur asks.

Fili pales and he turns to stare at the forest. Only blackness can be found between the massive tree trunks – darkness and no sign of their hobbit.

“I thought he’d gone back already…” Kili mutters.

Bofur curses under his breath. Balin sets aside his bowl and stands. “You thought he went back?”

“Yes,” Kili says, and he looks afraid, “He didn’t show up at the meeting point, so we thought he might have…”

“He hasn’t been here,” Ori tells them. Needlessly, Fili thinks, but Ori appears as terrified as Fili feels.

“You haven’t seen him since you left?” Balin asks, tensely.

Dwalin is already buckling up his weapons. Fili feels terrible – and responsible. Have they really abandoned Bilbo in that unwelcoming forest? Hadn’t he vowed not act so thoughtlessly anymore after that debacle with the ponies?

What if something happened to Bilbo?

“We split up so we could be faster,” Kili tells the company, “He went looking for mushrooms…”

Thorin climbs to his feet. “We’ll have to look for him. Bombur, Gloin, you watch the camp.”

Then he turns to the rest of the company. “Take your weapons and torches – who knows what awaits us.”

He is as decisive as always, yet Fili can’t help but feel that his uncle is exasperated. Whether at their blunder, he can’t tell. But he hopes it is not at the necessity of them now having to look for their hobbit – whatever befell him, it is not Bilbo’s fault.

(And he prays it is something simple. Maybe he fell asleep from exhaustion. Maybe he overate and then decided to take a nap. Everything but what would make Bilbo feel their abandonment. They did not mean to – Fili is aware how isolated Bilbo must feel in the company, how unwelcoming some are – and hasn’t he sworn to not be one of those? Will he now be the one who abandoned Bilbo alone in a dangerous place?)

Fili has never felt so wretched. This could have been a wonderful evening – for once they are safe out here, and the food smells good – but now his heart is pounding, and he’s panicking on the inside. Kili keeps staring at the forest – “He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

But Fili can’t reply, because he does not know. He hopes so – because if Bilbo is harmed, it will be Kili’s and his fault.

He wishes they’d waited. Frantically wishes he could change his behavior then, could go back and remember. He’s not usually so scatter-brained, it’s just sometimes…

They had not meant to leave the hobbit behind. They’d just had a good run, and were eager to share their spoils. He’d just … forgotten.

Which is pathetic – you don’t forget a comrade, much less a friend. He only hopes Bilbo is willing to forgive them.

“We should split up,” Dwalin calls out.

“Only in pairs,” Dori cautions.

It’s only wolves, Fili wants to say, and they’ll be quicker to find Bilbo if they cover as much ground as possible. But a small risk remains, and as harmless as this forest may seem, splitting into single individuals is always a bad idea.

“Alright,” is the short response, and then they’re off.

Kili clings to Fili’s side, and he has to force himself to slow down, because they just might miss something.

 ***

For a moment, both Bilbo and the wolf are utterly still.

Then the wolf growls and lunges, teeth snapping shut a hair’s breadth from Bilbo’s face as he squeaks and stumbles backward. His foot catches on something and his heart stops and he thinks that this is the end, this is it, he will die torn apart by wolves, even as he falls.

He hits the ground hard, but the wolf misses him, its second lunge too far, and lands somewhere behind Bilbo. A howl goes up nearby, this time accompanied by snarling and Bilbo can’t breathe, can’t think, doesn’t even know what is real and what not. All he can see are gleaming white teeth, and he can smell the foul breath of the beasts and he doesn’t even know how many there are, but they are too close and he needs to get away.

Bilbo doesn’t even think about calling for help.

He rolls to his left, and a clawed paw scrapes across his back, tearing through cloth and skin. Bilbo doesn’t even feel it, he needs to get to his feet, up, up, up, and move, even though his back stings and there’s a trickle of something wet and warm running down.

Bilbo makes it to his knees, blindly reaching for the sword that has somehow become tangled in his coat and won’t budge, and then a heavy weight slams into his side. He’s thrown off his knees instantly, and something sharp and cold brushes past his jugular – and then he is flying and the other thing is not.

The ground rushes up and he tumbles and rolls more than he lands, and behind him the wolves howl with frustration. He’s gained moments, but his head is spinning and his shoulder burns. With his stomach rolling, he struggles upright, clutching onto the branches of nearby bush and his stomach threatens to empty itself while a cacophony of growls and snarls rushes his way. He sees glowing eyes in the dark, wicked teeth glinting in the moonlight, and his heart is in his throat.

With strength he doesn’t even know he possesses he jumps, because otherwise he’ll die, and in sheer desperation manages to grab hold of a higher branch. His arms tremble and the skin of his hands rips open on the rough bark, but Bilbo only hears the wolves snapping at his heels, their furious growls and feels their breath on his skin.

Gasping for breath he leverages himself up, his arms aching from the strain. He manages wrap his right leg around the thick branch, and is almost up, when suddenly jaws snap close around his left foot.

He doesn’t hear himself scream.

***

“I think Bilbo went this way after we –“ Kili breaks off the moment the howling begins again. But this time the sounds are ferocious.

He turns to Fili, who mirrors his frightened expression. Please not, they both think, and then Fili, chalk white and wide-eyed, he draws his sword.

“This way!” he shouts and runs off.

Kili follows, and the howls turn into snarls and barking and growling, and it sounds terrible. He has never feared wolves, but the snapping of sharp teeth now fills him with terror. The ground under his feet is unstable, the darkness so penetrating he barely sees a thing, and yet he runs faster than he ever has in his life.

Please not, he prays, once more, please, please, please.

And then Bilbo screams.

***

The beast digs his teeth in, holds on, while Bilbo clutches the branch in desperation. The weight on his foot is pulling apart his muscles, and he feels his tendons stretching further and further and he has never felt a pain like this before. It hurts so much it barely even registers, except for the whiteness overcoming Bilbo’s vision, and the feeling of hot liquid running over his feet, while the beast’s tongue pushes against his toes as the teeth slowly scrape down through flesh and bone.

He clings to the tree trunk with a strength born from desperation, uncaring of the wood biting into his skin, scratching up his cheeks. There might be tears burning in his eyes, and his eyes are wide-open, but he sees nothing.

Then the weight is gone and his lower leg throbs – throbs because there is so much pain it does not even register, and Bilbo is afraid to look down. He scrabbles to hold on, his sweat-soaked hands bleeding from the rough bark.

A loud snarl – and teeth cut into the soft flesh of his leg again, but this time the jaw closes around his leg, and Bilbo can’t even scream –

And he loses his hold, and he’s falling, and then he hits the ground and his head is spinning, and he can’t move, but he can smell the wolves, and hears them and they are so close, and -

And he must die.

What the wolves of the Shire did not accomplish all those years ago, these beasts will. Bilbo does not even know what to feel – pain, despair, loneliness – but it is all swallowed by sheer terror.

He wants this to be over – but he can’t just lie still in agony. He rolls over, and teeth find his arm instead of his neck. Claws scrape over his thighs, and he whimpers, as the wolves growl.

Then abruptly something loud crashes into the space, the wolves snarl and turn, and some of that noise sounds like yelling, and footsteps, and the side of his collar is warm and sticky, and the world fades into black.

***

Kili’s arrow kills the wolf hovering over the unmoving shape of their burglar, and Fili launches himself at the next one with an unintelligible cry. Dwalin beheads another, and Thorin takes care of the snarling beast that tried to sneak up on Ori.

The wolf pack does not stand a chance. Not if they counted twice as many; not against a group of furious dwarves.

Fili does not care for clean kills – from the corner of his eye he sees the crumpled form of their hobbit, and he can’t tell if he’s alive or dead, but those screams, those screams –

He cuts and cuts and cuts, and does not even hear when the growls turn into whimpers, and the wolves turn to run. Kili shoots the stagglers, and Oin is already across the cleaning, followed by Bofur and Thorin.

Fili’s blood is singing, his heart crying for revenge when he joins them. Kili, next to him, gasps for air, but whether from exhaustion or fear, none can tell. Oin curses, and Thorin looks appalled and Fili is terrified.

Up close he can smell blood. Much of the ground is covered in it – and even if Bilbo’s burgundy jacket hides some, there is no covering the four, deep, parallel scratches running across his back. His right shoulder has been bitten – and Kili abruptly gags and turns.

Fili glances down.

Bilbo’s lower left leg is a mess. It looks chewed on – most of the skin is gone; tendons and muscles exposed, with chunks missing from in between. Bone is peeking out from the mess here and there, and Fili can’t even tell if all toes are still attached.

His stomach twists, and he has to turn away, just when Oin asks Dwalin to come over and get rope or a belt, because they have to stem the bleeding if Bilbo is supposed to even have a chance. Under Dwalin’s hands Bilbo looks even smaller, and there is already so much blood on the ground.

Somebody retches, but Fili’s can’t tear his eyes away. Not when he is responsible for this disaster, not when Oin carefully rolls Bilbo on his back.

The hobbit whimpers, his brow creased in a pained frown. His face is pale, scratched up and bloodied, and Fili wishes he could undo this all.

Oin carefully works his way down Bilbo’s torso, muttering under his breath. His face is drawn, posture tense – his expression does not darken (but neither does it lighten). With a lurch of his stomach Fili realizes that Bilbo’s leg looks even worse like this. Even now a bit of blood trickles from the open wound (is that mess of flesh and bone even a wound?), and around him, the company looks grave.

“Oin?” Dwalin asks.

Their designated healer leans back. He does not look happy when he turns to face them. “He may have a chance…”

They all hear the unspoken ‘but’ in there. And truly, it is not a difficult conclusion to come by, given the amount of blood covering the ground and the gory mess that is Bilbo’s left leg.

“Let’s get him back to camp,” Thorin orders. His voice does not betray any emotion, and Fili wonders how he does it. His own hands are trembling, and he doesn’t dare to speak – his voice would break.

Instead he falls in step next to Kili, who is still as white as chalk; his eyes wide in disbelief and terror. Fili manages to grip his brother’s upper arm – and from there on it is difficult to tell, just who is supporting whom.

Bofur is the one who carries Bilbo – tenderly and carefully. The hobbit, thankfully, remains unconscious, though his expression twists in pain at each small movement.

By the time they have reached camp, Bilbo is shivering. His pallor is worse, and Oin frowns worriedly.

“He’s in shock,” he announces, “Not a surprise, but…”

“Will he make it?” Ori bursts out, “Is there something we can do?”

Oin wipes a hand across his face. He looks at Bilbo again, visibly making a call. Then he sighs. “There is nothing we can do. With the materials at hand I can’t save him.”

Fili’s gaze is drawn to the mangled leg. Of course, Oin can’t help him, here, out in the wilderness. Even in a settlement this kind of injury would be difficult to treat.

Dwalin clears his throat. “If we cut off the leg,” he says, “It’s harsh, sure, but if we cut it off and then cauterize it at once, it’d stop the bleeding.”

Thorin glances over to the merrily flickering campfire. Fili swallows – this is brutal, but if it saves Bilbo’s life… And the hobbit is unconscious, so he might not even feel it.

Oin shakes his head. “He’s lost too much blood already. He wouldn’t survive.”

They turn their gazes back to the figure shivering pitifully on the ground. Bilbo has been wrapped in several blankets, with only his maimed leg sticking out. Oin has barely dared to touch it – he could clean it with alcohol, but with the state of the leg he doubts it would help.

“What do we do then?” Kili bursts out, and stumbles forward “We can’t just… can’t just stand there and watch him die?!”

“Kili!” Thorin hisses.

“You can’t do this!” Kili shouts accusingly, and sinks to his knees next to Bilbo’s prone form, “You can’t just let him die! We’re … we’re not…”

Fili hears the tears in his brother’s eyes, and so does everyone else.

Balin draws a loud breath. “Rivendell,” he says, “It’s about a day’s ride if you hurry.”

Thorin glares at him, but Oin seems thoughtful. “The elves might be able to help,” he offers, “It’s no guarantee, but I have heard that Lord Elrond is a gifted healer.”

“Then I will take him there!” Fili announces. His knees feel weak, and he might be trembling on the inside, but this is the least he can do. Their foolishness has landed Bilbo in this situation – it is their responsibility to get him out of it again.

“And I’ll come with you,” Kili says, before Thorin can protest.

Their uncle does not look happy, but the remainder of the company has already accepted their decision. “You’ll have to ride hard,” Balin says, and Dori adds, “Take Minty and Daisy – they are the fastest.”

“Try to keep the burglar stable,” Oin says, “I’ll wrap his leg, and see if I can get some liquid into him. Check his breathing – and his heart. He might get a fever, so try and keep him out of the sun.”

Already Bofur is leading the ponies to them, and Kili is preparing their bags.

Fili watches it all with a pounding heart. He swallows, looks at Bilbo and prays to whatever deity might be listening to please, please not let the hobbit die.

***

Later Fili will not remember much of their desperate ride through the night, even though it seemed to last forever. They are lucky in that they do not encounter any hostile being. Instead, Middle Earth seems lonely as the eastern horizon begins to grow lighter.

The mountains glow once the sun crests over the horizon, but all they focus on is the road ahead and the hobbit in Fili’s arms. His breathing is uneasy, shallow, but there is no more comfort to be found atop a horse.

It is just before noon that they reach Rivendell. Neither of them has eyes for its beauty; instead Fili bows to the first elf he sees and says, “Please, our friend needs help.”

And draws back his cloak to reveal Bilbo’s slumped form.

***

Fili and Kili do not leave Bilbo's side, even as Elrond and his aides cut away the blood-soaked clothes. The skin underneath - where it has not been torn open or hideously bruised, is sickly pale, and Fili has to swallow down bile when he realizes that on top of everything, the hobbit has also lost a significant deal of weight.

Just three weeks ago he was a prosperous, round little thing - now little of that remains.

In daylight, the injuries look worse. Bilbo's skin is littered with cuts and scrapes, but they all pale compared to the deep scratches running across his shoulder. They are bright red, and oozing puss - Fili knows the claw marks on Bilbo’s back are even deeper, and he does not dare think about the foot. Dread fills Fili’s entire chest.

Even Elrond sucks in a deep breath when he unwraps that mess.

"In all honesty, master dwarf," Elrond says after a heartbeat, "I do not know if I can save him."

And the fragile hope in Fili’s heart falters. Something burns in his eyes and he has to avert his gaze. Bilbo rests quietly on that cot prepared for a much larger being, looking pale and fragile. Any other being - even a dwarf - would have died from the blood loss alone. That Bilbo has managed to linger is nothing short of a miracle – Fili knows that.

And yet…

"Please just try," Kili chokes out, not even trying to hide his desperation, "Please."

Elrond looks taken aback for a short moment. Then he turns his attention back to Bilbo's mangled leg, inclines his head and says, "Of course."

Fili's watches in petrified horror as the tourniquet is opened and replaced - the skin underneath is blue and black, and with growing queasiness Fili realizes that Bilbo may lose the entire leg.

An elf suggests this, but is shut down, since "He wouldn't survive it."

Fili's notices that his hands tremble.

A painful moan draws all attention to Bilbo. The hobbit's eyelashes are fluttering, his face is sweat-soaked and a shudder runs through his entire body.

"He's coming to," a blond elf calls out, and Fili is frozen to the spot. Bilbo can't wake - not to this, not to even more pain, not when they can't give him anything because they are all too afraid he might not wake up again.

Nonsensical sounds leave Bilbo's chapped lips. It may be a name or a plea for help - the hobbit's eyes are glazed, and whatever he sees, Fili desperately hopes it is a friendly face.

"His heart is speeding up - he's going to lose more blood like this," says another elf, with a pointed glance to where, in spite of the new tourniquet, the sheet underneath Bilbo's leg is turning bright red at an alarming rate.

"Talk to him," Elrond tells Fili and Kili, "He knows your voices, there is a chance they may calm him."

Or scare him further, Fili thinks. After all, they are the ones that left him on his own, have consigned him to this.

Kili abruptly unfreezes. He falls more than steps next to the bed, and gently reaches out to smooth the hair out of Bilbo's pale face, muttering under his breath, pleading with Bilbo to calm down, to rest and to relax. Fili, with his heart in his throat, follows his brother.

Carefully he settles down on the mattress, and reaches for Bilbo's hand. The palm is clammy and cool, frighteningly limp and fragile. It disappears entirely between Fili's hands, as he sets out to rub some warmth back into it. (Or so, that if the worst comes to pass, Bilbo will not be alone).

He finds that there are tears burning in his eyes, and he closes them before the elves see.

Bilbo flinches violently as one of the healers begins cleaning out his maimed leg. Elrond is muttering a spell or something under his breath, eyes closed in concentration. The hobbit's brow furrows, and a pained sound escapes from his throat, but the healer does not falter.

The rag turns red and brown, and so do sheets and water. A strong septic smell fills the air,  and Fili makes the mistake to look down. Red flesh glistens in the air, but chunks of it are missing. In between the white of bone glares through, and there is one patch in Bilbo's foot, where Fili can actually look through the space between the small bones.

His stomach turns violently and he has to look away. The bile rises, and if he clutches Bilbo's hand like a safety line, nobody notices.

The hobbit's struggles lessen, and when Fili looks to his face, it has grown impossibly paler. Kili is half frantic, telling Bilbo to hang on, to wait for them, because they will save him this time, but all it garners is a weak shake of the head.

In the end, it takes even Rivendell's skilled healers a long time until the wounds have been taken care of. By the time they are done, Bilbo's life hangs by a thread, and Elrond himself needs to be helped by another elf to remain upright.

"I cannot do anymore," he tells Fili and Kili who both bow deeply to show their gracefulness, "But your hobbit friend is strong to have lasted so long."

And that is truly all that can be said.

Fili and Kili stay with the hobbit all through the night and the next day. Elvish healers come in and out, change bandages, apply ointments and check on Bilbo's breathing. The hobbit remains unconscious, and Fili is almost glad once he develops a fever - it is better than the pale stillness that so much resembled death already.

Though when Bilbo, delirious with fever, twists and turns, yells for his mother and cries, Fili can't help but detest his own relief at what so obviously causes Bilbo further pain. Kili is quick to wipe the tears away, to caress Bilbo's hair in a way a mother might have done.

But they are a paltry replacement.

By the second morning, Bilbo still stubbornly clings to life. Kili has finally nodded off in the chair - the princes have refused to leave the hobbit, even when Elrond himself told them to rest - and Fili, too, feels utterly exhausted. An elf tells him that the rest of the company arrived, but Fili does not truly make sense of the words until the door is opened and Thorin marches in, followed by Bofur, Oin and Balin.

"Elrond says he may live," Thorin announces, "Oin?"

The healer moves and begins to peel back bandages, muttering under his breath. "They have something nice for those cuts," is something Fili catches, "Probably won't even scar..."

But Fili is distracted by the twisting expression on Bilbo's face. And when Oin touches the leg, Bilbo's eyes abruptly snap open, and he tries to sit up. Fili checks the movement, and a pained gasp leaves Bilbo's lips as he falls back against the pillow, eyes wide with panic.

"Bilbo, calm down," Kili calls out, "Calm down, you're safe. It's alright! Bilbo!"

"Make sure he doesn't hurt himself further," Oin orders, and Fili presses Bilbo back against the pillows, as gently as possible. But the hobbit is fighting him with all his strength - not much, but Fili can already tell his grip will leave bruises, and Kili keeps pleading.

It takes far too long, but eventually Bilbo's eyes clear.

"Fili, Kili," he mutters, in wonderment, "What...?"

And then the exertion takes its toll and Bilbo faints again before he can even complete that sentence.

Fili feels like crying. But with so many people in the room, he keeps his head bowed and his mouth shut, until Oin steps back and releases a deep breath.

"I'd say he'll make it," he pronounces, "Unless his heart gives out. Mind you, any other creature's heart would've already done so, but apparently hobbits are a fair bit hardier than expected."

***

Kili initially only pretended to be asleep, so that Oin and Thorin could not badger him into abandoning his post. Balin had already frowned at Fili's pallor, and Kili knows that once Oin recommends rest, Thorin will make sure, they follow.

But he has promised not to leave Bilbo's side again, not when the hobbit might wake up alone and in pain.

Though, perhaps, he had underestimated his own exhaustion. When he wakes up, it is far later - the light has grown dim again - and it is due to something touching his own hand. Blearily, he raises his head - and Bilbo's eyes meet his.

The hobbit is awake and aware and Kili's heart skips a beat. Certainly, exhaustion is prominent on Bilbo's face, and he is still far too pale, but the panic is gone. Instead, Bilbo's brow is furrowed.

"Kili," he whispers, "Where are we? What happened?"

Kili blinks, dumbfounded as dread wells up in his chest. "Don't you remember?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Bilbo bites his lips, "Only that we ... We went looking for dinner, I think. You, your brother and me, didn't we? I'm afraid it's all a bit blurry..."

And Kili wants to scream for help. He does not know how to deal with this, how to reply to the innocently trusting gaze Bilbo is directing at him.

He draws in an unsteady breath and nods. "We did. And ... We're at Rivendell."

"Were we attacked?" Bilbo asks, "Is everybody alright?"

Kili's heart breaks. He wants to draw Bilbo into his arms, shield him from harm - and yet, he barely can look at the hobbit when he finally finds his voice (choked as it is).

"It... We ... We are alright. Just you ... I'm so sorry," he bursts out, even as Bilbo frowns in confusion, "We went to look for food, and there were wolves, and Fili and I thought you'd already gone back - and I'm sorry, we're sorry, we never meant to leave you alone, please. We didn't mean to, we just, just ... Failed completely."

He hangs his head.

For a moment Bilbo is silent. Then Kili feels a hand coming to rest on top of his own. A hand swathed in white bandages.

"Err, it's alright, I think?" Bilbo mutters, aiming for a light tone, "I mean, I'm no fighter and I can be fairly clumsy. And I've never been good with wolves...."

A shudder goes through Bilbo's body, and Kili feels as if he must cry. "I'm sorry," he mutters, feeling useless.

"How bad is it?" Bilbo asks, "I, I don't remember anything, just that we went into the forest. And now... Well, nothing hurts, but my head feels a bit bloated, so I know better than to trust my senses."

He laughs uneasily as Kili's eyes widen in disbelief. "I, ah, well, if it isn't much I'm certain I won't be holding you up much longer. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice with this falling down and getting up again - from a certain age on we hobbits try to avoid the falling down but entirely so..."

"You almost died," Kili blurts out, and Bilbo grows pale. "Oh," he mutters, "I... I didn't know..."

Kili shakes his head, and it takes all not to grab Bilbo by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. The hobbit has no business looking at him like this when he lingered at death's door for the last two nights. When Kili has seen more of his leg from the inside than from the out.

"You almost died because we left you there," Kili yells, and this time he can't stop the tears from falling, "We thought you'd gone ahead and left, and didn't even think to check on you until dinner. And then, and then..."

He is gasping for air, but the words keep tumbling out of his mouth. He needs Bilbo to understand how badly they screwed up, how ill this went - the hobbit cannot just laugh this away, that... That would offend his honor just as much as Bilbo's.

"We went to look for you, but the wolves found you first... We killed them, but... I'm sorry," the last words are barely louder than a whisper.

"You couldn't have known there were wolves," Bilbo says, but the silence has already stretched too long, "Or that they prey on hobbits."

He sounds tired, and Kili realizes this discussion is perhaps detrimental to his health. So he forces himself to calm down, clench his fists and contain his inner tumult. However, before he can answer, a new voice joins their discussion.

"But we were supposed to wait for you," Fili says from where he stands in the doorway, clad in an unfamiliar tunic - perhaps borrowed from the elves, "And that was for a good reason. We might not have known about the wolves, but the wild is a dangerous place, and there are worse things than wolves out there - which is why uncle insists that nobody ever leaves the company on their own."

Kili wipes angrily at his eyes, while his brother crosses through the room. "And in that duty to you, both us failed. For that, we will accept whatever punishment you deem fit."

Fili inclines his head gracefully, and Bilbo flushes. "Er, I, uh,..... I don't think that will be... Unm..."

"Take your time and think about it," Fili tells him, "We and the entire company are aware of our culpability. And it would ease my own conscience."

Kili nods.

"Anyhow, I am glad you are awake," Fili continues, "And before my brother and I tire you out, I believe Lord Elrond wanted to speak with you."

Though Bilbo is fatigued, he agrees.

***

Bilbo is only left alone for a very short time. After Fili has pulled Kili from the room, they are soon replaced by Elrond, and Bilbo wants to rub his eyes. A part of him can hardly believe this is real - he is at Rivendell, being treated by such an illustrious historical figure - and Elrond is everything he imagined and more.

And yet the elf asks unsettling questions. If the dwarves purposefully endangered Bilbo's life - which he, strained as his relation to the group may be, firmly denies. Thorin and some of the more old-fashioned dwarves may disapprove of him (and they are not wrong, Bilbo is certainly no burglar), but Fili and Kili are honest in their regret, and Bilbo likes them, and Ori and Balin and Bofur and Bombur (and the others, too).

"So what is a lone hobbit doing amid a group of dwarves?" Elrond inquires.

"Well, one day Gandalf..." Bilbo begins, and Lord Elrond - rather unbecomingly of such an ageless being - sighs deeply, "Gandalf," he repeats, exasperated, "I should have known."

Bilbo can't help but chuckle. "Well, he is known as a disturber of peace back in the Shire."

Elrond raises an eyebrow. "Your people thus are wiser than many others. So why did you leave?"

It is both too difficult and too personal to explain his reasons - from loneliness to his mother's adventurous streak to the enchanting singing and to simple boredom - even if the other party is a famed elf lord. So Bilbo shrugs. "I thought it was the right decision."

Elrond waves it away, "I merely wanted to ascertain you joined the company on your own wishes, and were not coerced."

Whether by wizard or by dwarves remains unspoken, yet in this Elrond is surprisingly easy to read. Bilbo gives a wry smile - he certainly wasn't coerced, but he won't say he wasn't convinced. And he also knows that his decision will not appear rational or sane to any outsider.

"Well, be at peace while you are here, and take your time to recover," Elrond tells him. Somebody will be by later to change the bandages. If you feel so inclined, I could have somebody bring you something to read, also."

Bilbo perks up. "I would love to. Actually, might it be permissible if I visited the library myself?"

Elrond frowns. "Certainly permissible, but I am afraid it will be sometime until you are able to walk. And, I'm afraid to say, the library is quite some distance away."

Bilbo blinks. "I ... Well, I think I might manage with a crutch, then?"

Elrond steps closer and peers at Bilbo's face. "Master hobbit, a crutch will not nearly suffice. Do you not remember what happened to your leg?"

Bilbo swallows. "I'm afraid I don't," he admits, suddenly fearful. He'd thought it was a break - he'd seen it happen to other hobbits. One wrong step, a loud crack, tears, and quite a while spent wearing thick and stiff bandages until the bone had mended.

The bandages wrapped around his left leg certainly seem thick enough.

"Though they did tell me that apparently I was rather... injured," Bilbo adds, uncertain whether or not Fili and Kili might have overplayed the seriousness of his injuries.

"That was apt," Elrond comments gravely, "For two days we did not know whether you would live or not. And for your information - your leg was maimed. Had we not been certain it would kill you, it would have been amputated."

"Oh," Bilbo has grown pale and weakly slumps back against the fluffy pillows, "I ... I wasn't aware."

"And that is no bad thing," Elrond replies gently, "Because it means that the medicine we give you against the pain is working. It doesn't always, and I'm afraid to say it loses some of its potency after a while. So you may experience some discomfort yet."

"But nobody is going to cut off my leg?" Bilbo asks. He'd be stranded without his left leg, and the idea leaves him terrified.

Elrond smiles. "No. The injuries are healing surprisingly well. Baring complications, you may actually make a complete recovery in time."

At that point Bilbo is too relieved to think further on it.

But once night has fallen and Bilbo finds himself unable to sleep, he grows uneasy. He is either too hot or too cold, and he can't lie down anymore, but he has barely enough strength to push himself to a sitting position.

His thoughts begin to wander as well.

How much time has passed since their arrival? How far had they been from Rivendell when it happened - his mind still comes up with nothing when he tries to recall what occurred after he left for the forest.

He will need to talk to Kili and Fili again. Make certain they don't blame themselves - though it would be easier and more convincing if Bilbo actually knew what happened. But he thinks they are truly sorry, so he is willing to forgive and go on.

If he can go on, that is.

They - that is Thorin - is operating in a limited timeframe. Bilbo is not quite clear on the details, but Thorin wants to reach Erebor quickly. Though even Elrond told Bilbo that healing will take time. And if his leg is truly that badly injured, it will need a lot of time.

He swallows against the knot building up in his throat.

Bilbo doubts Thorin will be inclined to wait. Not that he can fault him - a break may very well take an entire season to heal, and if his leg is injured worse ... If Thorin decides to move on and leave Bilbo behind, the hobbit can understand his reasons (and to Thorin he has been but a deadweight all along).

It just...

He doesn't want this adventure to end already. He doesn't want to go home. Doesn't want to return to his calm, in exciting life. Not when he has just started to get to know the dwarves, is constantly learning new and fascinating things of their history and culture. He hasn't given it much thought, but the campfire conversations have made him feel more alive than feuding with Lobelia ever had.

(And even his prized tomatoes don't taste as good as a hearty meal after a long day of riding).

Something burns in his eyes, and Bilbo clenches them shut. He doesn't want the adventure to end, but he knows that it is only sensible.

When sleep comes, it is uneasy and filled with odd nightmares.

***

The nightmares are frequent, and most of the time Bilbo doesn't remember anything - at least he says so.

Until one night, when the moon is too bright to let Fili sleep, so he has taken up his bedside vigil at the hobbit’s bed, and stays silent long after Bilbo has woken abruptly and struggled to get his breathing under control.

Instead of lying back down, that night Bilbo turns to look at him. "It was a pack of wild wolves, wasn't it?"

Something cold runs down Fili's spine. "Do you remember?"

Bilbo makes to shake his head, but then shrugs. "I don't think so. But, in those dreams... I think I tried to climb a tree..."

He is silent, gathering his thoughts, and Fili waits.

"In the Shire, we sometimes get wild wolves. They teach you to climb as high as possible in that case and wait them out," he laughs, "We aren't fighters."

"It's actually a fairly decent strategy," Fili comments, "Better than entering a fight you may not win."

Bilbo nods. "And it's very rare that wolves come to the Shire - not enough easy prey. But sometimes, when the winters are too cold and last too long you can hear them howl in the woods. And in the twilight you see them hovering along the tree lines on the other side of the rivers."

Fili shudders at the description. He has never feared wolves, but there are other enemies. Though dwarves tend to go out and fight them - how horrid must this game of wait and see be.

"One year," Bilbo continues, "When I was still fairly young, the Brandywine froze. It was the worst winter in recent memory - and with the river frozen dozens of wolves crossed into the Shire. It got so bad we couldn't leave our homes - old Mr. Cottonfoot was torn to pieces right on his own porch."

Bilbo shivers, his gaze fixed on an invisible object in the distance. "But then the food started to run out, too. Though we were lucky - my parents had a pretty well-stocked pantry."

A habit Bilbo has kept; Fili recalls. A habit with a far more practical background than any of them expected - they had taken the filled pantry as an expression of wealth more than anything.

"Though then we started running out of firewood. And my father had become ill, so we couldn't really let the rooms grow any colder," Bilbo chuckles unhappily, rubbing at his wounded shoulder, "It was in the middle of the day, it shouldn't really have been a problem. Mam and I went out, just down the hill, to get some more wood. Before we're even halfway done that howling starts up, and the beasts are practically everywhere."

Fili bites his lip. He has seen hobbit children in the Shire - he wouldn't pit any against a grown solve, much less a starving one.

"Mother told me to climb a tree and stay there," Bilbo shudders, "She could handle herself, always could, and I was so frightened...."

Fili holds his breath, and prays this story has no gory conclusion. Abruptly, Bilbo returns to the present and catches Fili's horrified gaze.

"She killed three of them with an axe," he tells Fili with a wry smile, "Got pretty scratched up, but the wolves fled and left us alone long enough to get some wood. But it was fairly horrible, altogether."

"Mahal, Bilbo, I'm sorry," Fili says, dumbfounded, "If we had known, we'd never sent you out there on your own."

Bilbo shrugs. "You couldn't have known. And anyway, wolves are afraid of dwarves, rather than the other way around, I believe."

It is true, but it doesn't calm Fili's mind.

"Anyway," Bilbo ends his little narration, "That is why I'm not certain if I remember, or if it's merely old memories all over again. It's not so bad."

Fili blinks. “It’s horrible,” he protests, “It should never have happened!”

Bilbo smiles sadly. “Many things should never have happened,” he agrees, “And yet they do. But for what it’s worth, I’m still alive, so it all could have ended much worse.”

No words come to Fili’s mind on how to respond. So he acts on instinct and draws Bilbo into his arms and keeps him there until he has fallen asleep again, and the sun begins to rise.

***

The next day brings Gandalf to Rivendell. The wizard is most upset when learns what has happened to Bilbo, and after a short and harsh exchange of accusations, Thorin ends up even less willing to let Elrond view his map.

Fili and Kili steal away. They had wanted to make their own apology to the wizard, but with tempers foul as they are, a strategic retreat may be the better - if more unsettling - solution. (They would have preferred not to upset the wizard. The worst they have seen Gandalf do is storm off in a fit of pique, but rumor tells of unwary beings turned into toads and worse).

Their footsteps lead them back to Bilbo's room.

The hobbit is still asleep, so they take care to enter as silently as possible. In silent agreement they both draw up chairs so they can sit as close to the bed as possible. It is Kili's voice that draws Fili from his uneasy thoughts.

"Fili," he calls in as quietly as possible, and nods to Bilbo.

The hobbit's expression is twisted as if afraid or in pain, he twists under the blankets and is muttering under his breath. Nightmares, Fili realizes.

Not a surprise, after what Bilbo went through, but they had all hoped the hobbit would be spared this evil since his memories seem gone. But perhaps they aren't truly gone - Fili knows that this happens to seasoned warriors, knows it from listening behind closed doors when he ought to have been asleep.

He also knows that waking somebody caught in a violent nightmare is not without risk. But Bilbo is hardly strong enough to do damage, and Fili finds he can't watch this fearful expression on the hobbit's face a moment longer.

"Let's wake him," he tells Kili.

Kili blinks - and then nods with a small smile. And Fili breathes a little easier, as he steps forward and calls Bilbo's name.

When the hobbit fails to react, he reaches out to gently shake his shoulder. And the effect is instant - Bilbo jumps up, eyes wide and out of breath.

"No, don't -" he shouts, before he realizes that he is no longer caught in the nightmare. For a moment he just stares at Fili and Kili, before he falls back with an exhausted exhale. Warily, he wipes the sweat from his forehead, and Fili wants to apologize - but this is not the time for it.

Instead he clears his throat before the silence grows too long. "How are you?"

Bilbo seems grateful for the distraction, and manages the shadow of a smile. "Exhausted. Drained. Somewhat sore - but apparently I am still lucky. Master Elrond was in earlier this morning and indicated that I am extraordinarily lucky that I am not crippled by pain."

"He has said as much to us," Fili agrees.

"And some more," Kili mutters glumly. When Bilbo inclines his head in question, he continues, "Looked at us really grimly and more or less asked us if we actually wanted you to die."

Bilbo actually grins, "He more or less asked me the same."

"What?" exclaims Kili, "But you know we didn't! You know, don't you? We didn't know about the wolves and we would have never left you out there! You know that?!"

Bilbo flinches at the noise, but eventually raises a hand and signals Kili to calm down. "I know, I know," he says, "And I'm not angry or anything. Really, you don't need to worry. I'm rather afraid, though, that your uncle will now like me even less than before."

"Thorin?" Fili echoes, surprised, "Why should he?"

Bilbo twists the blanket between his hands. "Well, I haven't been much of a help, and now he had to go to Rivendell. I don't think he wanted to go here... And certainly not for such a long time."

Fili, who is too familiar with his uncle's mindset, grasps for words to say that aren't a lie, but Kili is quicker. "Well, he's hard to win over - half of the time I think he disapproves of me, but that's just his normal temper. Don't take it to heart - everybody else likes you far too much to leave you behind."

Bilbo straightens, and blinks. "Wait, what, wait for me? But everybody has been saying that it will take ages until I can even walk again."

Fili shrugs. "I doubt we will be leaving before the map has been deciphered, though. Uncle may be stubborn, but Gandalf has the right of it. If Elrond can read it, we should ask him."

"Yes, and I would think that Thorin would be off the moment after," Bilbo adds, "And I doubt I will be up to running by then."

"We dwarves can be quite stubborn," Kili chimes in, "If he puts his mind to it, uncle can easily last years."

Bilbo smiles, but his heart isn't in it. There is another matter weighting on the hobbit's mind, Fili realizes, and wonders how to address it.

"In any case," Bilbo says, "You needn't wait for me. I believe this may take a while."

"But we don't want to leave you behind," Kili whines, "And what would you do? Wouldn't you be bored to death within days, surrounded only by elves? Wouldn't you rather come with us?"

Bilbo chuckles, "I'm afraid it's not so much a matter of what I want, and rather a matter of what I can do."

Fili tilts his head. "But if that wasn't an issue," he says, and while his words are light, he can't help but tense as he speaks them - much rides on the answer, "Would you come with us? Even though we got you into this mess? And please don't say anything to make us feel better - nobody is going to think less of you if you decide to stay or go home after that. Actually, I think, my brother and I would make certain you got home safely - it's the least we could do."

Bilbo looks at Fili with wide eyes, and in that precious moment he looks nothing like the stuffy, fussy hobbit that first opened that green, round door. There is a certain spark to his eyes, and he looks young.

"In that case," Bilbo says with a wistful smile, "I'd like to continue with you."

And Fili had never known how much he himself had invested in Bilbo's answer, until he feels happiness blossoming in his chest and he gives the hobbit a bright smile in return. Kili is a little faster. "Well, then that's cleared up," he announces, "I'll tell the others."

He is practically bouncing when he leaves the room.

Bilbo looks at Fili, confusion on his face.

Fili shrugs. "You can always change your mind. But unless you do, prepare yourself to be carried."

"What?" Bilbo exclaims, "You can't mean - no, that is preposterous, that is..."

Fili keeps smiling and Bilbo trails off.

"Really?" he asks, and then shakes his head, "You are mad, you can't carry me all the way across the Misty Mountains. You..."

Fili's expression doesn't change and Bilbo blinks. "You're serious?"

"My mother taught me to take responsibility for my actions," Fili ascertains, "And my brother and I are most certainly at fault, so it is also our duty to see that our failure does not impede on you any further. So if you want to continue, we'll carry you."

Bilbo stares at him, dumbfounded.

"Though I think the others will probably want to carry you to at least for a bit. We all feel a bit guilty, to be honest," Fili admits, "So I think we'll all be rather happy if you remain our burglar for a while longer."

The smile they receive is nothing short of brilliant.

_Fin_


	20. Not of this world.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small Halloween ensemble piece. :) 
> 
> A snowstorm cuts Erebor off from the outside world, and strange things begin to happen. People disappear. People die. And Kili just wishes it was not real.

Winter in Erebor is cold. There is a snowstorm howling outside that has cut off all communication with the world, and they have forced the great gates shut. But it remains difficult to heat caverns carved from stone.

Kili wanders through the grand halls and sees his breath misting in the air. A shudder runs down his spine.

“Do you think that odd fellow yesterday got away alright?” he asks his brother. Strangely enough, yesterday a man – they think it had been a man, he hadn’t felt quite natural – had come and demanded entry to the treasury. Thorin had refused, and they were all glad to be rid of him.

“I wouldn’t know, but he was certainly in a hurry to leave, then,” Fili replies, and tugs his coat a bit closer, “Why does it have to be so cold?”

“Really. I was thinking – “

Kili is cut off by a scream and the sound of something shattering.

“I didn’t touch it, I promise, I didn’t,” Ori pleads. His face is white, his fingers tremble, and he is out of breath. “I didn’t. It fell, it, it, I was walking past and it –“

On the floor, the shards of what was once a crystal statue, glitter menacingly. Kili frowns – if these are unstable, they pose a danger. Ori was lucky – had the statue fallen on top of him, not even a thick dwarf skull would have saved him.

* * *

“Have you seen Gloin?” Thorin asks his nephews over lunch the next day. They are next to the hearth in the royal wing. It is a small room, but Kili still shivers.

“No,” Fili replies, “I think…”

He tilts his head. “I can’t quite remember when I last saw him, I’m afraid.”

Kili finds he can’t either.

* * *

“What does this rune mean?” Bilbo asks Balin at dinner that night, pushing forward one of his books. The hobbit has long protested wearing shoes, but once winter truly set in, has given up that notion. The stone is icy.

Balin almost drops the book in shock. “Where did you find that?” he asks.

Kili turns and gets a look at the book – it is one of Bilbo’s journals, nothing special. The rune, however, is different. Bofur whistles and Bifur curses.

Bilbo shrugs, embarrassed. “I found it. I think somebody wanted to mock me and smeared it on the book, but I have no idea what that means.”

Thorin is the one who clears his throat. “It means death. If that was a prank, it was tasteless – I would rather think it was meant as a threat.”

Bilbo pales. “But why… No, why should anybody threaten me? I think it was a prank. A very poor one, but a prank.”

Kili, like everyone else, is not so sure. Runes like that are not used lightly.

* * *

Come another evening, dinner is delayed. They are waiting for Bifur and Bofur to return from the excursion they led into the mines, but they fail to show up. The hour grows later and later, and the air grows tense.

“I will go and look for them,” Bombur announces, “You eat.”

“I will join you,” Dwalin promises, and grabs his axes.

“We will come as well,” Fili and Kili say, and before long, the entire company has risen. With his heart in his throat, Kili follows the group down into the mountain. Through small shafts and past deep gorges. In the light of their torches, gemstones glitter coldly.

His breath mists.

Eventually, they reach the end of the tunnels. And no trace of their miners can be found.

* * *

The next day, Thorin send out an official search mission. They have to list Gloin as missing as well, for he has failed to show up the last three days, and nobody can quite remember when he was last seen.

“Something is happening,” Kili tells his brother, “Something is … is making them all disappear.”

“Who would do that?” Fili asks, “It is strange, certainly, but who had cause to do this? This is certainly not the key to the crown or the treasury.”

In the evening, Dwalin discovers Balin dead in the hot springs. Even here, their breaths’ mist, and while there is no trace of poison or murder, the expression on Balin’s face was everything but peaceful.

“Shock,” Oin says, “It almost looks as if something literally scared him to death.”

Kili does not leave his brother’s side. He is too scared to sleep alone, too afraid he will wake and find Fili gone. Missing or dead. He just hopes that this terrible streak will end. That the snows will stop and the sun will return and the world be normal once more.

Nori is the next one to disappear.

“He might have gone to investigate,” Ori tells them, desperate to convince himself, “Or maybe to get help from Laketown. Maybe he’ll be back soon.”

Kili looks to Fili. To Thorin and Dwalin. All their faces are pale and drawn and worried. The large, cavernous halls of Erebor suddenly seem frightening. Who knows what lingers in the darkness of the corners. Who knows what is watching them from behind the stone pillars.

“We ought not to move alone any longer,” Thorin decrees, “It is not safe anymore. Once the snows let up, we will inquire with Laketown if they know of similar events.”

* * *

Neither Fili nor Kili find any sleep that night. After tossing and turning in a room that seems too cold, they go to seek out Oin. Perhaps their healer can make sense of what is happening.

But Oin shakes his head. “I have never seen or read of portents like these,” he tells them gravely, “In myth perhaps somebody might vanish without a trace, but not in this world. These are ill omens, indeed.”

And then he turns back to mixing up his remaining herbs into a tincture against cold. Dwarves do not get sick. But this winter, terrible as it is, Kili has heard coughing echoing through the halls. The proximity to Laketown, perhaps, the general poor condition many dwarves are in as they return to the mountain.

Still, this is unnatural.

On their way back up to their quarters, they can hear the wind howling outside. The snowstorm shows no inclination to draw away or lessen in its intensity. Dwarves may live very well underground, but now Kili yearns for the sun. Anything to dissolve this freezing, surreal nightmare.

Behind them, stone groans.

Fili turns on his heal. “Bombur!” he screams, “Bombur, watch –“

It is too late.

In utter disbelief Kili watches as one of the old, marble statues gives away, Bombur tilts his head up – and on the other side of the hall from them, their companion is crushed by the falling giant. The statue goes into pieces upon impact, and the crash echoes like thunder through the hall.

“Bombur!” Fili shouts and breaks into a run.

Kili’s heart has stopped. He forces himself to follow, but – this can’t be happening. This – this is too horrible. Too cruel.

But under his feet, shards of marble crunch and roll, and no trace of Bombur remains. The statue must have squashed him completely.

Not even blood is left behind.

* * *

“I was trying to make sense of what was happening,” Ori tells them when Fili and Kili meet him and Dori in the library, “I looked through all the histories, but no reference fit. The only common topic is that this is not supposed to be happening.”

Ori is pale, but there is an odd glint of determination in his eyes. Dread curls in Kili’s stomach – has he found a solution. And will it even be acceptable? Already so many are missing, that is seems unlikely that any joy will return to these halls.

“Dwarves do not get sick,” Ori says, “But there are several down with a cold.”

He ticks off another finger. “People do not disappear without a trace.”

Another. “At least one of us ought to remember where Gloin and Nori went.”

The last. “A body, no matter how badly harmed when crushed, will leave a trace.”

“What are you saying, Ori?” Fili asks. Kili glances to his brother and finds him just as pale and anxious.

The young librarian glances sideways. “That this is all rather – out of this world,” he says, “Think about it, it can’t be happening, according to what we know. When did it start? When did – “

There is a shout outside.

Not again, please not again, Kili thinks. Why are they living through this nightmare, what have they done? Wasn’t it enough to face off against a dragon? Haven’t they suffered enough yet?

But when they burst out of the door, the entire grand staircase is empty. Not one living soul can be seen, when usually at least the echo of footsteps can be heard. It is as if they are the only living beings in the entire mountain.

“What was that?” Kili asks his brother.

Fili shakes his head, but he can’t hide that his hands are trembling. “I have no idea.” His breath forms small clouds. “Ori, Ori, what did you – “

And when they return to the library, they find it empty.

For a moment, neither speaks a word. This, this can only be a nightmare, Kili tells himself. One drawn out, horrible nightmare, and he hopes he must never experience this again. It is too terrible to be real, too –

They can’t be all alone.

Fili reaches for his hand. Clasps it. At least his brother’s hand is warm – and yet that makes it all the more real.

“Let’s look for Thorin,” Fili says.

Kili nods.

* * *

Erebor is their home. They should not be scared. And yet they hold their breaths as they make their way down to the throne hall. Not one living soul meets them on their way – Erebor feels dead, and Kili thinks that if one more thing happens he will run. Run and try the snowstorm. It might be death, but even death is preferable to this.

“Thorin!” Fili shouts, “Thorin!”

“Orin. Rin. In.” the echo mocks him. There is no answering shout.

“Thorin! Dwalin! Anybody!” Fili’s voice cracks. Despair floods Kili’s heart. Whatever is happening, he just hopes that it ends soon. He cannot …

“Fili?” a familiar voice shouts, and out of the darkness the small shape of a hobbit emerges, “Fili, Kili! I was thinking I was the only one left.”

Bilbo, too, is pale and glances nervously from the left to the right. “Do you have any idea of what is happening?”

Fili shakes his head, while Kili lunges forward to grasp Bilbo’s hand. He will not lose track of another. He doesn’t want to turn and find the hobbit gone, too. They will see this through, together. No matter how it may end.

“I don’t know,” Fili utters, and it feels as if the entire room is listening in, “I don’t. We were in the library and Ori – I think he was trying to explain something. Then there was a scream outside, and suddenly everybody was gone.”

Bilbo frowns. “That … they just disappeared?”

“Yes,” Fili nods, “Ori was saying how this all cannot be actually happening, that it’s rather out of this world, but I didn’t understand what he meant. And then he and Dori were gone, just like that. We just went outside…”

There are tears in Fili’s eyes, and it cuts into Kili’s heart.

Bilbo, however, purses his lips. “There are … plants that can make you see and experience things that are not of this world,” he tells them, “Or mushrooms. Though it doesn’t fit, however – “

He tilts his head, and there is a sudden spark in his eyes, even after all that terror. “Recently, Thorin did receive a rather otherworldly item for tribute. Nobody could make sense of it…”

“I remember,” Kili calls out. Just before the storm started – a small not-quite chest of a material nobody had ever seen before. “But that…”

“Ori said something about the timing,” Fili chimes in, “It … it would fit, though I don’t quite understand.”

A shiver runs down Kili’s spine. His breath comes out in small white puffs of air.

Bilbo looks to the ground. “It feels ... cold, doesn’t it?” he asks, and then gives them a very dark, very humorless smile, “I would say we are onto something.”

Ice kisses the back of Kili’s neck. All he hears is Fili’s scream to “run” and then he is jerked off his feet and they are running. Flying down the hall and through the corridor, and something roars and shatters behind them. The ground shakes and the take the stairs, three steps a time, and Fili practically throws himself through the doors of the treasury.

Kili kicks them shut behind them. It may not be enough to keep out whatever is behind them, but –

“Look for the item,” Bilbo shouts, “Destroy it!”

Metal clings, and he sees that the hobbit has drawn his blade. It glows – not blue, but silver, and Kili has never seen it do this before. All the hair on his arms is standing, and only Fili manages to turn him around.

“There!” his brother shouts, and Kili sees the black not-quite box.

It feels wrong. Alive. Pulsing.

He runs forward, stumbling over gold coins and trinkets, and sees the ground under his feet freeze. With loud cracks ice spreads through the treasury, covering gold and jewels, and turning all white and blue.  A howl of wind, and Kili doesn’t turn, is too scared.

“Bilbo!” Fili screeches, as he has turned around.

Kili risks a look – and wishes he hadn’t. The black man – creature – that once visited is there, and it is not a men, not with limbs so long and thin and spindly, and it is stretching and pinning Bilbo to the ground, his blade uselessly at his side –

“You destroy the trinket,” Fili tells him.

And then he lets go of Kili’s hand and turns around.

With a yell Fili flings himself at the creature, and Kili keeps on slipping. Why has the not-chest be on a pile? Why can’t he even manage this – they will all die, and his heart is pounding, and he is cold, and his fingers stiff –

And then he is up there, and falls onto his knees, and the not-chest is black, and enchanting, and –

A thud makes him glance up, just in time to see the black thing fling Fili to the side like a doll. His brother flies through the air, until he hits a pillar. Then he falls and does not get up, and this, this can’t be real.

Kili looks down at the not-chest again.

This can’t be happening. 

Ori had said the same. It can’t be happening. Not of this world.

And the pieces click into place.

Ice races through Kili’s veins, while his hands finally grasp hold of that ancient dagger his mother gave him – an old heirloom – and when he looks up the thing is right there. Leaning down. It is so cold he cannot breathe –

But he slams down the dagger.

And the ancient magic of Durin’s line works, because the thing shrieks, and twists, and flinches – and then it shatters, and Kili collapses, because even if it is over, this has to stop. Nothing of this can have been real, it all was a terrible, terrible bit of magic and he –

The world falls apart, then.

* * *

The dead cannot return to the world of the living, but that does not apply to those that never died now. Shattered statues cannot be repaired overnight, but the stone guardians that stand watch along the central hallways are complete.

Balin and Ori resume their activities in the library. Bofur and Bifur return to mining, and Bilbo to his books. Kili is pale and shaken, but it is a harsh winter, and they are lucky that dwarves don’t get sick.

These things do not happen.

(And a certain, otherworldly tributary present simply disappears from the treasury. It had never belonged to this world, all along.)

_Fin_


	21. A Bitter Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blinded by gold sickness, Thorin attacks Bilbo. It is what shocks him out of it, but the price is high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Major Character Death. Violence. Angst. 
> 
> Prompt + Fill on the HKM: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19597325#t19597325

Bilbo releases a short, exasperated breath. Thorin is beyond reasoning, and Bilbo is too frustrated to keep trying. Curse those dwarves and their stubbornness, he wants to shout, but he doubts Thorin is in any mood to appreciate the irony.

The King's mood - bleak ever since Smaug was slain - has turned darker. He does not contemplate negotiating - not even if Thranduil and Bard came begging on their knees.

Bilbo cannot understand it.

He is familiar with grudges, he knows the history of wrongs committed and he is more than aware of the most recent adversities the dwarves have faced. And yet, he fails to comprehend how Thorin can be so stubbornly blind to the realty of their situation.

But he is hungry, and tired, and has seen his contract fulfilled.

"Well," Bilbo breathes, "Then I guess that is where I leave."

He makes to walk past Thorin. And with a clang the sword comes up, blocking his way. Bilbo glances down, blinking in disbelief - what right has Thorin to deny him passage, why should he -

The sword turns, putting the sharp edge against Bilbo's chest and he has to stumble backward to avoid being cut. In shock he looks up - what is wrong with Thorin, this has to be accidental, is he alright, is he - and finds Thorin's eyes clear and burning with fury and suspicion.

Bilbo can't help the gasp that falls from his lips.

His heart leaps into his throat, he retreats, and the sword follows. Thorin is deadly silent, his expression murderous, and Bilbo's chest abruptly fills with terror.

"Thorin, what?" he stammers, "What are you -?"

His throat closes up. Gold coins shift under his feet, some tumble aside, the sounds unbearably loud in the silence.

Thorin closes the distance with one, long step. The tip of his sword hovers steadily over the center of Bilbo's chest. Bilbo swallows, his gaze pleading with Thorin to explain, to speak - to at least remove his sword. But the dark expression on Thorin's face does not change.

Bilbo's back connects with the cold marble of a stone pillar, and his heart flutters. The sword touches his chest, soft and almost teasing. Thorin's face is neither.

With cold sweat beading on his forehead, Bilbo forces himself to raise his hands, to show Thorin that he is harmless (and terrified). His voice catches oddly, and comes out shaky, "Thorin, I didn't ... I'm sorry, I did not mean to upset you. I just was ... Thorin, please don't..."

***

His words do not reach Thorin. All the king under the mountain sees is that small, strange being blabbering with panic in its voice, while white hot rage rushes through his veins. Betrayal, his mind roars, traitor! He intends to abandon them, sell them out to the enemy - did not Thorin think the burglar was not to be trusted from the first moment on?

Did his heart not warn him of Gandalf's instrumentations?

And isn't that beardless creature the embodiment of his enemies’ scheming? The one they sent out to get close, to get under Thorin's skin, so he could turn around and leave just when the dwarves have succeeded. Isn't this all this traitor is about? This shrieking, little thing?

He can barely formulate a clear thought, though his kind is racing. His heart seethes, his mind filled with hatred and anger and he has never felt so betrayed -

And he desires nothing than to pay them back in kind. Thranduil and his facade of fairness, Bard and his righteousness and Gandalf and his machinations. But they are out of reach.

His sword cannot reach them.

Cannot avenge the injustice committed against him, his kin and his people.

But he can stop this creature from leaving. Those high-pitched pleas for mercy and cries for help will not be heard here. He will not betray them. And maybe Gandalf will feel sorry for his maneuvering for once, maybe they will regret their deeds, once they see the burglar dead.

From them he cannot expect justice.

But he can deal justice to their little tool.

With a voiceless roar, Thorin pitches forward. And shoves his sword straight through Bilbo's chest.

The burglar stutters, eyes wide in fear and disbelief, and Thorin thinks he deserves it. Shouldn't have underestimated Thorin - shouldn't have expected to walk all over him. The fault is Gandalf's - the burglar should have known better.

"Thorin!" somebody yells, but the king does not turn.

Instead he watches with grim satisfaction as Bilbo gasps for air, as a thin trickle of blood springs from his lips, and as his eyes flutter shut.

It is done, Thorin thinks, just as a pair of hands closes around his torso and wrestles him back. There is shouting, and Thorin sees how the burglar slumps forward, stuck to the pillar by the sword like a butterfly, until somebody steps into his line of vision.

His name is called, but it doesn't make sense, and Thorin does not recognize who is here, and the world disappears into darkness.

***

Dwalin gently settles Thorin on the ground, the body limp as a puppet's. Whatever guilt he feels for knocking out his king and friend, though, is easily overshadowed by dread.

They've been too late.

He heard parts of the argument, and thought nothing of it. Bilbo has shown to be just as stubborn as any dwarf, and Thorin is temperamental on a good day. He - and Balin, and Fili and Kili and just about the entire company had gotten to their feet - when the tone changed.

But Bilbo's pleas for mercy did not stop Thorin from running him through - and Dwalin still thinks he must have imagined it. If not for the gaggle of dwarves around that pillar, whispering and shouting, and the smell of blood in the air.

With baited breath he hurries over.

Gloin is holding Bilbo upright by the shoulders, the hobbit mercifully unconscious. Oin and Balin kneel in front the burglar, checking the injury, while Bifur has a hand on the sword to stop it from slipping and doing further damage. Dwalin sees a glint of metal, and recognizes one of Fili’s small knives in Balin’s hands – as he cuts the blood-soaked fabric of the burglar’s coat away.

Oin’s expression is grim, his hands steady. Where the darker colors of Bilbo’s coat and waistcoat have hidden much of the blood, his white shirt is now bright red. Dwalin swallows – he has seen many injuries, but the sword hasn’t even been pulled from the wound yet, and already their burglar – small as he is – is losing blood fast.

“Lie him down or remove the sword first?” Balin asks Oin.

The medic grimaces, “Sword first – it’s stuck in the stone, we can’t move him elsewise.  Fili, go and get my supplies!”

The prince turns and runs before Oin has even finished his sentence. Kili remains, green in the face, while Ori hesitantly steps forward. “Won’t he bleed too much if you pull it out while he’s still upright?”

Oin nods sharply. “Yes, but the sword’s pinning him to the rock.”

Something in Dwalin’s stomach twists – it takes force to pierce marble, and he still can’t fathom how Bilbo could have enraged Thorin so. To leave Thorin deaf to his pleading, to any sense of mercy – there was madness in Thorin’s eyes, and Dwalin shudders to recall it.

A soft cough brings more blood from Bilbo’s lips, and Bofur is there with a piece of fabric to wipe it away. Fili stumbles back with Oin’s supplies, completely out of breath, but all the healer does is give a sharp nod and call for Dori to replace Bifur.

“Pull with all your strength”, he tells Dori, “Try to keep steady – but I need the sword out as quick as possible. The moment it starts to move the bleeding will become heavier, so we need to be quick about it.”

Dori, pale but collected, agrees.

“On the count of three,” Oin says.

Dori is quick and steady and yet the amount of blood that rushes out from the wound makes Dwalin despair. The left half of the burglar’s shirt is soaked in red, and his face is paling rapidly. Oin is quick to lay the prone body down, has Bifur applying pressure and Fili cut the bandages.

But it may not be enough.

Dwalin swallows against the invisible obstacle in his throat. The injury is enormous in comparison to Bilbo’s size, and he has seen too many warriors felled by smaller wounds.

Oin’s fast, almost frantic movements more than demonstrate the bleak prospects.

What have they allowed to happen? They did see the change in Thorin, though, Dwalin now thinks, they preferred to turn a blind eye – in order to ignore the change in themselves as well. Only Bilbo remained immune to the spell of the treasure.

And now he may pay for it with his life.

Oin curses loudly, and it pulls Dwalin from his contemplations. The gold coins under Oin’s knees are red, and the pool is spreading. Bilbo’s breath is shallow, and even with Dori and Bifur applying pressure there is no way to stop this wound from bleeding. A leg you could cut off – a stab wound through the torso cannot be treated that way.

“Oin, what?” Fili asks when their medic tosses aside his blood-soaked cleaning rag.

“It’s not enough,” he announces grimly.

“The elves?” Ori shouts.

“Not enough time,” Oin replies. Somebody takes a shaky breath.

And then Bofur glances up from where he has taken one of Bilbo’s hands into his own. “Cauterize it.”

Oin’s brow creases. “He may not survive it.”

“He won’t survive like this either,” Bofur returns, and something cold runs down Dwalin’s spine at the sound of his tone. It’s not right – nothing about this is. 

“Right,” Oin says, and takes a deep breath, “Right. It’s the only way. Nori, I need something iron – a poker or whatever you find. Just something with a flat surface.”

“On it!” Nori shouts and takes off.

“Bombur, Gloin – I need a fire, right here,” Oin continues, “Dori, Bifur, Bofur – you need to hold him down. Let’s hope he doesn’t come to during.”

***

Later, none of them will ever forget the smell of burned skin. The sizzling as Oin pressed the hot iron against the wound on Bilbo’s chest, the way the hobbit – even unconscious – struggled. And how pale he had been once it was all over.

Oin sighed, his brow creased.  “He lives for now,” he had said, “We cannot do anymore tonight. It would be best, if all of you went to get some sleep. Tomorrow … will not be easy.”

***

They all are gathered at the makeshift infirmary at the crack of dawn. None slept well this night - Bofur is pale, Fili has dark circles under his eyes and Oin looks haggard. No greetings are exchanged, for this cannot possibly be a good morning.

Though they all cling to the faint hope of good news.

"Any word from Thorin?" Balin asks.

Dwalin shakes his head. The king remains unconscious. He hopes that upon waking, the madness will have lifted. But Dwalin has barred the door in case it has not.

He keeps to the back of their little congregation. Oin has taken seat on the bed and is gently peeling the bandages from Bilbo's wound. The hobbit remains eerily pale and still, brow creased as if in pain.

That is not surprising, after all the hardships and Thorin's descent into madness. Nobody will forget the scene - running up only to find Bilbo pinned to a pillar by Thorin's sword. It will haunt them all forever.

Then Oin removes the last bandage and under the sharp smell of ointment, there is a whiff of something putrid.

Oin curses.

They all watch in silence as he checks the injury with steady fingers, takes Bilbo's pulse and eventually slumps forward defeated.

"Well," Dori clears his throat awkwardly, "How is Bilbo?"

Nobody dares to breathe in the short silence. Then Oin shakes his head. When he turns to face them, his expression already tells them that the news are not good.

"He won't make it," Oin pronounces, and his voice remains steady only due to decades of experience, “The wound – it is poisoning his blood."

“Can’t the elves help?” Ori suggests with a trembling voice, “They … might know something.”

Oin presses his lips together. “Ordinarily yes, I would think so,” he replies, “But this – I can’t tell you exactly without opening our hobbit up, but at least one organ was pierced by that sword. I doubt even the elves have a remedy for that.”

The ensuing silence is filled with terror and fear and disbelief. Eventually, Balin clears his throat. “How long?” he asks.

Oin sighs. “A day perhaps.”

***

Thorin wakes with an aching head and a heavy heart. He feels weakened, nauseous, comparable to the after effects of a night spent drinking, but it has been long since he last over indulged, and this is no normal fatigue. It is soul-deep, and will not budge, and he finds he cannot remember its cause.

His entire body is sluggish and slow to react, though he manages to shrug out from under the heavy covers. Only to realize that he is still in his armor and garments, and only his sword and outer coat are missing.

Did he not dress to sleep? He can’t remember – nor can he remember going into this chamber. All of his memories are blurred and hazy.

With a frown he pushes himself up. The chamber is – it’s a sideroom to the treasury, he recognizes it. Certainly no bedroom, and outside it is silent. He wonders where the rest of his company is, and then retrieves his coat from where it has been slung over a chest.

His sword remains missing.

He has never voluntarily let go of a weapon in the last century. Being unarmed equals death out in the wilderness, and that does not change, even within a mountain. With dread in his stomach, he walks to the door, intending to find out what happened.

The door, however, is locked.

***

Time is measured in exchanges of water. In those stuttering, shallow breaths Bilbo takes – the only reminder that he is not yet dead.

Kili sighs and dips another cloth into the warm water Nori has carried up from the hot springs deep within the mountain. Bilbo’s face is white, like marble, and his skin is eerily cold to the touch. Oin is asleep, for now – there is nothing he can do.

Nothing any of them can do, but make certain that Bilbo is as comfortable as possible in those last remaining hours.

Kili’s heart aches at the thought. It isn’t right – Bilbo looks so young and fragile lying here – he shouldn’t be dying. Not from that injury – Thorin will never forgive himself, either. Kili knows his uncle too well; knows that once his mind clears, he will be horrified.

A shiver runs through Bilbo’s body, and his face scrunches. They have been trying to warm him up, burying him under furs and blankets and wiping his face with hot water. So far their efforts have been in vain.

And yet, in the depth of his heart, he can’t stop hoping for a miracle.

When Kili next tries to wet Bilbo’s face with the steaming cloth, the hobbit whimpers, and his eyelashes flutter. He jerks back his hand, and suddenly his pulse is racing.

“Fili,” he calls out, and his voice shakes, “I think he’s waking up.”

Bilbo’s eyes open, but they are glassy and blind. His breath hitches, and for a moment Kili fears the worst, but then the odd, breathy sound resumes its usual, shallow rhythm.

“Bilbo,” he calls out softly, “Bilbo.”

Kili sets aside the cloth and touches Bilbo’s hair. The hobbit flinches, but he can’t focus, and only small, pained sounds escape from his throat. Kili’s chest clenches in response. He wants to cry.

He forces his hand to caress the blond curls spilling haphazardly over the pillow. They are soft and clean, now – Bifur cleaned them of blood during the night.

Bilbo’s hand twitches as he turns his head and glances into Kili’s direction.

“Drogo?” he mutters, “Drogo, are you…”

Kili exchanges a glance with the others, but all he receives is a shrug. They know painfully little about their hobbit; cannot identify the person he is calling out to.

“Is grandmother alright?” Bilbo asks, his voice shaky and brittle, “Father said she wasn’t well last time he visited. But she is …”

Then, abruptly his brow furrows. His head rolls back and he stares at the high ceiling with unseeing eyes. “No,” he mumbles to himself, “No, this isn’t right. Grandmother – she’s already dead, isn’t she? I remember going to her funeral – Drogo was crying, then, though he would not admit it later. Funny – it’s as if I can see her now, though.”

Something cold runs down Kili’s spine. On the other side of the bed, Fili pitches forward and catches Bilbo’s hand between both of his. “Bilbo,” he calls out, “Bilbo, it’s alright. You’re with us – you are in Erebor. It’s alright.”

Kili can hear the pain in Fili’s voice, and bites down on his lip.

The hobbit stiffens at the contact. “Erebor?” he repeats, and Kili wants to hug somebody, because at least their voices still reach Bilbo, “Isn’t that … far away?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Fili almost sobs in reply, “But you are here. We traveled all the way together, from the Shire to Erebor. You helped us, remember?”

Bilbo blinks and another tremor wrecks his body. Laid up on the cot, it is obvious how much smaller he is compared to a dwarf. It seems unthinkable now that they pitted him against a dragon – not when this hobbit looks as if any of them could snap him in half.

“I … yes, no. I…” Bilbo weakly makes to shake his head, but the movement stops when his head is tilted to the side and he gasps for air. “I don’t – mother?”

“Oin,” Bofur calls out from behind them. Kili has completely forgotten about the other dwarves in the room with them, and he twitches at the noise, “Oin, come over here. Quick.”

There is a strange note of desperation coloring Bofur’s voice and Kili glances up. The other dwarf frowns. “They’re gone,” he says, “His parents.”

“Laddie,” he calls out, louder, to Bilbo, “Laddie, I’m sorry, your ma isn’t here. Just a bunch of loud, smelly dwarves, but I hope that’s alright with you."

***

Balin is returning from a visit to the wall – somebody must keep an eye on the situation outside, but that has not changed. There are still two hosts laying siege to Erebor, and he hopes this fragile truce will last one day longer. They do not have the resources to deal with further tragedies – when he hears the tapping and shouting.

It takes a moment for his mind to puzzle it out – he hasn’t slept in an age – and then he remembers. Thorin. Dwalin said he had locked him up.

With a deep frown, Balin changes his direction. Seeing to Bilbo is certainly more important – especially since Oin cannot predict how much longer he will be with them – but in his heart he wishes to find Thorin’s mind clear.

Regrettably, his wish is granted.

“Balin,” Thorin calls out the moment the dwarf greets him, “What happened? Why am I locked in here? Were we attacked? I do not remember much, or how I got here. Is everybody unharmed?”

Balin sighs and looks at the door. It is heavy oak, kept in place by an iron bar. He could just turn his back and walk away. Ignore Thorin for a little longer.

But he does not possess the callousness necessary.

“We were not attacked,” he replies, cautiously, “The situation is unchanged. … Do you recall, yesterday, you and our burglar had a disagreement?”

It is too harmless a word for what occurred. Balin still remembers the shouting, remembers hunching his shoulders while his consciousness was already telling him to intervene. They all have known Thorin’s temper.

There is a short silence on the other side of the door. “I … not truly, I don’t. It’s all a blur, and … we were shouting, weren’t we?”

Balin blinks. If Thorin remembers – well, it would save him the necessity to explain, but the dread in Thorin’s voice makes his stomach clench.

“Yes,” he says, careful to keep his voice bland.

“I … I was furious,” Thorin continues in a tremulous voice, “It’s … it is hazy, but I recall a gut-deep anger. And I …”

There is a minute pause. “Balin, what happened to Bilbo?”

Balin takes a deep breath, and then removes the iron bar. Opens the door and steps in to find Thorin leaning on a chair right next to the door. He is pale, looks unsettled.

“Balin?” he asks and his voice quivers.

He only shakes his head. “It’s … perhaps it is better if you don’t remember,” he says, even though he does not know if he ought to say it. It will inspire Thorin to seek out the truth, and if Thorin has indeed found his heart again, that truth will destroy him.

But he cannot lie about this.

“What happened?” Thorin asks, “I know I was angry, I know I wasn’t reasonable. What did I do?”

“It is done,” Balin says.

Thorin stiffens. “Is he…” his voice drops away and he has to clear his throat, “Is he dead?”

Balin sees how he grips the arm of the chair so hard his knuckles turn white. Any other would sway on his feet – Thorin stares at Balin, searching his expression for an answer.

And Balin knows he could lie and have Thorin believe him.

“On his deathbed,” he replies, quietly.

“Mahal,” Thorin staggers backwards, “Mahal. … What … what have I done? Why … why did you not stop me? Has, has Oin seen to him? Did you call for the elves? Gandalf?”

Balin can only shake his head. “Oin has seen to him, but … he is beyond the skill of any living being to heal.” 

Thorin groans, and slumps into the chair. “What … why…” he mutters, and then he falls silent. Balin can only guess at what he must be feeling – it must be the gut-wrenching remorse he himself is experiencing, multiplied times uncountable.

“We … all had been blinded by the gold, Thorin,” Balin says, “Bilbo was the only one to see true. It … You were not yourself.”

He shouldn’t be excusing this – there is no excuse for what Thorin did. It is one thing to shout at each other in a fit of rage, but to turn violent. Perhaps it would have been better for all of them to just let the dragon be.

At least then the gold would not have caused such tragedy.

Thorin eventually draws himself up. His eyes are dry, but there is horror in them, horror and disgust and fear, and Balin feels his heart break. (They had set out in hopes to end here with smiles on their faces. They are here, and yet he has never felt less like laughing).

“Where is he?” Thorin asks, “I … would like to … “

Apologize, is the word, and they both know it is not strong enough to encompass the guilt eating through Thorin’s gut. Balin frowns, wondering for a moment if Thorin’s presence might not be detrimental to Bilbo’s health.

But then – there is no recovery for Bilbo, and mayhaps an apology may ease the gentle creature’s soul.

“Another sideroom,” Balin says, “Come.”

***

Thorin is met with glares once he enters the chamber, but the silence of the vigil is not disturbed. He bows his head, knowing he deserves the distrust – he may not remember what he did, and Balin won’t tell him, but he remembers the unreasonable fury.

He deserves their scorn.

For now, though, his gaze is drawn to the pale figure resting on the cot. Bilbo is visibly shivering, and his lips are turning blue, even though he is buried under layers of furs and blankets. The room itself feels hot, stifling, and Thorin has to force himself to draw a deep breath and approach.

“How is he?” Balin asks, behind him.

“Awake,” Oin answers, “but delirious.”

As he comes closer, Thorin can hear the quiet, choked sounds the hobbit makes. His eyes are closed, but his brow is creased, and he does not seem unconscious. Fili is bowed over him, murmuring nonsense.

Thorin stops an arm’s length away from the bed. He feels all eyes on him, and Kili is glaring.

“I … Whatever I did, I will not seek excuses,” he announces, his voice wavering, “I may not remember my deeds, but that does not make me any less accountable. Balin tells me – as does my soul – that Master Baggins’ fate is my fault.”

Nobody denies it, though some look to the ground. The spell of gold fever was upon all of them, not just Thorin.

It doesn’t change that Bilbo’s blood is on his hands.

Kili frowns, and then abruptly peels back the covers, revealing thick, white bandages wrapped around the hobbit’s middle. They are fresh, and yet Thorin sees the blood is already soaking through. “That is what you did,” Kili says, and there is pain in his voice. It is supposed to be an accusation, but tinted with too much grief to cut.

Bilbo twitches, and Fili shushes him with a gentle caress.

The bandages cover the hobbit’s entire torso, and before Kili pulls the covers back up, Thorin realizes they cover a deep stab wound.

“Mahal,” Thorin whispers.

That is why his sword was missing.

He will never touch a weapon again.

“I …” he can only shake his head in terror.

“You were under the spell,” Balin says, “We all were.”

“That doesn’t excuse what I did,” Thorin protests, sharply.

Balin shakes his head. “It doesn’t. But it cannot be undone, either.”

Thorin nods. He … must apologize to Bilbo. Seek to make amends, even though there is not enough time left.

So he sinks to his knees and gently grasps Bilbo’s left hand. It is cold, trembling.

“Master Baggins,” he begins, “Bilbo. I would … not if I lived a thousand years I could make up for what I owe you. Your courage has saved me and my own countless times, and for that alone you deserve more honor than even a king can bestow. Know that…. That I will owe up to my deeds and take responsibility. If there is anything you-“

“Thorin?” Bilbo mutters.

His head is tilted to the side, and his eyes are open. They don’t focus; the pupils large and dark, and he seems to be searching the air for something.

Thorin tightens his grip on Bilbo’s hand. “I am here.”

“Is … I … I will help you …” he mutters, “… take back Erebor. You, … you deserve it.”

The pain is suffocating and Thorin can’t breathe, but Bilbo stares past him, a shadow of a smile crossing his face. “You all should … should have … a home.  …  Just … just don’t be … so, so grumpy.”

Fili makes an odd sound, a cross between a laugh and a sob, and Thorin’s own eyes are burning.

“We won the mountain,” Kili whispers, “We already reclaimed it. Thanks to you, Bilbo.”

“The mountain…” Bilbo repeats. His eyelashes flutter, and Thorin can feel the pulse weakening under his hand, “That song … can you sing it … again, please?”

It is such a simple request that it breaks Thorin’s heart. His voice is stuck for a moment, and trembles when he hums the first familiar notes. He doesn’t bother to wipe the tears from his face. So it comes to this – thirteen dwarves, surrounding one hobbit, singing one of their ancient songs –

And Bilbo closes his eyes, a smile on his face, and allows the melody to carry him away.

***

It is a cold winter morning when Fili steps out onto the parapets, grief bowing his shoulders as much as the polished crown on his head does. The others are behind him, he knows, a silent support that gives him strength, but in the depth of his heart he wishes he had not have to bear this burden.

(But it is selfish and unfair. For Thorin, to shave his beard and renounce the crown, is perhaps the only way to seek atonement. And Fili now will act his part by securing the future Bilbo died for).

“Erebor will pay her dues,” Fili announces, his voice hoarse, “The curse of the dragon has been broken, and I do hope we may repair what damage it has wrought.”

Down below, Bard, Thranduil and Gandalf watch with raised brows and baited breath. They, Fili knows, have no reason to trust his word. No reason not to suspect a plot.

“Erebor cannot recover her former glory without the support of Laketown, Dale and the Greenwood,” he says, and does not add that neither Laketown nor Dale will be able to recover without help from Erebor either, “And to that purpose, I suggest we discuss our desires at a table, rather than in this environment.”

Bard steps forward. “That is all well and good, master dwarf,” he calls out, “We will listen to your proposal.” He does not seen convinced, so Fili is not surprised, when he adds, “We will be expecting you in Laketown on the morrow, then.”

Fili inclines his head. “Very well,” he agrees, easily, “Though I do have one more announcement to make. One that – I would rather not have to, and that grieves me deeply.”

Gandalf tilts his head, and Thranduil’s frown deepens. It is as if those two already suspect what Fili has to say.

He swallows. “Master Baggins … Bilbo was gravely injured,” for a moment Fili sees Bilbo, pale and glassy-eyed on the cot, “He passed away last night.”

Gandalf pales, as does Bard. Thranduil lifts his head, but there is no denying the surprise on his features.

“How?” Bard asks, while Gandalf abruptly stalks forward, “How did this happen?” he yells, “How did he become so injured? What did you do?!”

The accusation echoes.

Fili bites his lip. He is not cut out for this – what king starts his reign by announcing a death? With pain in his chest he catches Gandalf’s gaze. “If you will come up,” he invites, “I will tell you. And all that were his friends.”

_Fin_


	22. A little sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt (abridged): Hobbits are like their gardens, they live and thrive in sunlight, soil and fresh air. Living underground in Erebor, away from all of these things, begins to affect Bilbo's health. He's losing weight, skin is pale, he's sleeping a lot but is still exhausted, and muscle cramps. I imagine it as similar to severe Vitamin C deficiency. Really, the symptoms and nature of his illness is entirely up to you. The question is, what will the company do about it?
> 
> Set after a happy-AU BotFA, where Bilbo stays in Erebor (at least for the winter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a deathfic - this has a happy ending. With a lot of angst on the way, and a bit of blood, but it all ends well. :)
> 
> Prompt + Fill: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19098893#t19098893

Winter is harsh and unforgiving. And Bilbo, whose memories of Fell Winter return in force, is happy to withdraw into his well-heated chambers in the palace of the reclaimed kingdom. Curl up with a steaming cup of tea and whatever drafts and contracts have to be drawn up, and ignore the blizzard howling outside.

He doesn’t think much about the odd headaches. The low light and long time spent pouring over ancient scrolls and tomes does also explain those odd episodes of lightheadedness he experiences. Also, the fare in the mountain is a bit lacking in variation, so it’s quite natural that his appetite lessens.

Nothing to worry about.

Until, one day, Balin walks to his alcove and finds Bilbo slumped over a book.

“Bilbo,” he calls out with a chuckle. The hobbit has looked tired all day, so Balin is not surprised to find him asleep. Though it is rather amusing, since Bilbo is in a habit of telling anybody else off – falling asleep on them is not a respectful way to treat old writings.

The hobbit doesn’t stir. Well, those circles underneath his eyes had been rather dark…

“Bilbo,” Balin calls again, “Bilbo, wake up. It’s time for the evening meal!”

Not even a twitch.

Balin is a bit hesitant to touch Bilbo – some dwarves do not react well to being woken this way – but when then he reaches out to shake Bilbo’s shoulder, and finally, the hobbit stirs.

When Bilbo turns Balin is taken aback at how pale he is.

“Wh… what is it?” Bilbo mutters, weakly rubbing at his eyes, “Balin? Is something...?”

“Mealtime, Bilbo,” Balin replies, “Are you quite alright?”

Bilbo pushes himself upright and yawns. “Rather tired,” he admits, “I think I might go straight to bed.”

“If you say so,” Balin agrees, though he personally thinks Bilbo could do with some more meat on his bones. He does look better than after the battle, but still a far cry from the hale, healthy hobbit they met in the Shire.

But maybe sleep will help.

***

Gloin keeps a wary eye on the hobbit next to him. They have just had a lengthy meeting with Erebor’s returned nobles on a future taxing system, possible agreements with Laketown and Mirkwood and besides being a voice of reason, Bilbo’s has had to defend his right to a share multiple times.

Gloin is willing to string some of these dwarves up by their beards, but Bilbo looks mainly fatigued. He listened to Gloin’s rant with a smile, nodded, and then just let the silence settle. Now only their footsteps echo down the corridor – and those are slowing down.

He is just thinking that the hobbit is looking rather unhealthy, when Bilbo stumbles and only Gloin’s quick reaction makes certain the hobbit does not fall. For a moment Bilbo remains stationary, half on his feet, half in Gloin’s arms, blinking as if he wasn’t quite there.

Then he shakes his head and pushes himself up. “Sorry about that,” he says with a small smile, “I wasn’t quite watching where I was going.”

The stones here are smooth, Gloin knows that. Still, he nods – let the hobbit salvage his pride.

But he keeps Bilbo company all the way up to the hobbit’s quarters.

***

“More?” Bombur asks, holding up a filled ladle.

Bilbo grows paler. “No, no, thank you,” he tells Bombur.

Who turns away with a frown. He hasn’t missed that Bilbo’s plate is still full, and the hobbit is doing little more than pushing the food around. It can’t be good – especially since now he knows that hobbit’s have seven meals a day. For Bilbo to eat meagre portions three times – it’s no wonder their burglar looks like a gust of wind could blow him over.

“Isn’t the food to your likening?” he asks Bilbo after the meal is finished. The hobbit’s plate is barely touched, “It’ difficult, but we can send for Laketown for a little variety.”

“But the snows…” Bilbo protests.

“Aren’t that bad,” Bombur replies, “Sure, it’s no weather to be outside for long, but we aren’t cut off from the world. And there are some days when the weather’s decent enough – and Laketown isn’t far.”

At least the weather outside won’t pose a problem for a dwarf, Bombur thinks as he looks at Bilbo. The hobbit is likely to freeze within minutes – perhaps they ought to see about getting his chambers warmer, still.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Bilbo replies, shaking his head, “I, well, to be quite honest, I am not feeling that well – so you see, that is the reason. It shall be better soon, I think.”

“Well, if that is all,” Bombur replies, a little skeptical. But he remembers Bilbo at Laketown – the hobbit had had little interest in food then, either.

***

“So, Bombur told me you’re coming down with a cold,” Bofur announces while he drops a large fur-lined coat over Bilbo’s shoulders. The hobbit flinches, surprised, before he sets down his quill and casts a bleary-eyed glare over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Bofur says a bit belatedly, catching sight of the squiggle now lining the page, “But, shouldn’t you be resting? I remember Oin said that back in Laketown, and if you’re getting a cold again, it’s what you should do.”

Bilbo clears his throat. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather, yes,” he says, “But it’s not a cold. If you recall, I was coughing a lot, then.”

Bofur recalls those coughs better than he wants to, and a sudden spike of concern runs through his chest. It had sounded as if Bilbo was trying to expel his lungs, and at times Bofur had expected to see blood – but the hobbit had recovered.

Now, though, Bilbo looks just as pale. Only he isn’t coughing.

“Still,” he says, and leans forward. There are very dark rings under Bilbo’s eyes, and his hand is trembling slightly, “If you are unwell – at least go to Oin. He might have something for it.”

Bilbo sighs. “If it gets worse,” he promises, “Most of the time, I only feel tired, though. It’s probably being inside a mountain – I always think it must be night and that makes me tired.”

Bofur pats his arm. “Then get some rest. The world will not collapse if those papers are completed tomorrow.”

Bilbo tugs the coat tighter around his shoulders and casts a weary glance onto the parchments spilled over the desk before him. “Perhaps you are right,” he mutters, “I …”

“Well, then that’s that,” Bofur cuts him off, and tugs him from the chair, “Up you go. I’ll tell Ori and Balin and whoever else needs to know – and nobody will bother you until morning.”

***

Kili stumbles across the collapsed form in a side corridor leading away from the library. For a moment he is frozen to the spot, disbelief on his face.  Then he stumbles forward, hurriedly kneeling down next to the hobbit.

There is no blood on the ground, no visible injury – and Bilbo is breathing, too, evenly, though his face is chalky and shivers wreck his body. Kili reaches out to turn the hobbit over, carefully, and finds his skin cold and clammy.

But finds no reason for this collapse.

“Bilbo,” he calls, “Bilbo.”

The hobbit’s long eyelashes flutter and he comes to. At first his brow scrunches in confusion, then his expression morphs to mortification. “Oh dear,” he mutters, “Did I pass out?”

Kili nods, and if his fingers are digging into Bilbo’s shoulders, he can’t help it. His heart is still racing – Bilbo’s crumpled form on the ground in seared onto the back of his eyelids.

Bilbo tries to push himself up, but Kili forces him to stay on the ground. “Not so fast,” he tells him, “Wait until you have recovered. That is … should I send for Oin?”

Because even though Bilbo is conscious, he is terribly pale.

“Ugh,” Bilbo’s hand flies to his head, “I … don’t…”

“Bilbo?” Kili asks, leaning forward. He doesn’t like the way the hobbit keeps massaging his brow.

“Sorry, it’s just … I am having a terrible headache,” Bilbo replies without opening his eyes, “I’m afraid I will be rather useless for the rest of the day…”

“Oin might have something for it,” Kili suggests, “We could…”

“It’s just a headache,” Bilbo says, “I’m certain it will be better by tomorrow. Let’s not bother Oin – he has other things to worry about.”

And that is true. There are still renegade orcs wandering the plains and ever so often a traveler or patrol runs into them. Oin, being the only one with a skill at healing, is perhaps one of the busiest members of their company.

A small shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine – Kili feels it even through the thick clothes.

“Well, then let’s get you back to your chambers,” he says, and belatedly thinks he should have done that all along. Lying on the cold ground cannot have been good for Bilbo – he remembers what the cold water did to him all too well.

Since Bilbo doesn’t try to rise, Kili places one arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees and lifts the hobbit up.

“Kili!” Bilbo exclaims, his eyes flying open in surprise. The pupils are large, unfocused, “Put me down. I can walk!”

“But this is much more practical,” Kili returns and begins walking, “And faster, too. You know we dwarves take larger steps.”

Bilbo grumbles, but his eyes close again. “Yes, but this is … isn’t dignified,” he huffs.

“Really?” Kili asks, “And who shall see it? The walls?”

He laughs, but his heart is uneasy. Bilbo makes a low sound of protest, and grows still in his arms. The hobbit’s body is light, even wrapped several layers and a fur coat.

***

“Are you sure you should be working today?” Ori asks, as he drops of another pile of documents on Bilbo’s desk. The hobbit hadn’t been at breakfast today, and several of the group had commented on how unhealthy he had looked.

Now that Ori has the opportunity to study Bilbo closely, he has to agree.

There is a gauntness to Bilbo’s face that he last saw in Mirkwood when the long hours of sneaking in the darkness, little food and sleep, had worn him thin. Erebor, though, is warm, and while they may not have food aplenty, nobody is starving.

“I will manage,” Bilbo replies with a sigh.

Ori frowns. “Maybe you should finish early? And get some sleep?”

Bilbo sets down his quill and his lips quirk. “You wouldn’t believe how much time I have spent sleeping recently,” he shakes his head, “Though somehow I always wake up feeling more tired than before.”

“Maybe,” Ori says, thinking back on what he has read, on what he knows some of their companies experience, “… sometimes people do sleep but don’t rest. They have nightmares, but they don’t always remember – it’s what exhausts them.”

Bilbo purses his lips. “I would think I would recall a nightmare,” he says, slowly, “But perhaps… I have had some, we all probably have, but … well, they were just that. I don’t know how they could exhaust one so.”

Ori nods. “Well, I think the ones you don’t remember are worse and therefore more exhausting? I have to admit I am unclear on the details – perhaps you ought to speak with Dwalin.”

“Dwalin?” Bilbo echoes, surprised.

“Yes,” Ori nods enthusiastically,”When he was training the guards, a lot of the young dwarves experience nightmares like that after their first battles. Sometimes they even get nightmares during their waking hours – but I think Dwalin knows some things that might help. “

“Hmmm, and you wouldn’t know anything?” Bilbo asks, and Ori is glad to see a small sparkle back in his eye, even though the question makes him blush.

“Well,” Ori squirms on his seat. “I, that is one the journey… after we had that run in with the Stone Giants, well, he told me I might want to sleep closer to my brothers. Or anybody, really.  Having somebody close when sleeping helps, he said.”

That is when he notices Bilbo’s gaze growing distant and wants to hit himself. There are no siblings here Bilbo can cuddle up to, no relatives to open their arms – and while none of their company would deny the hobbit this comfort, he knows Bilbo is probably too proud to ask.

“But I’m certain there are also other ways,” he hurries to add, “Just talk to him.”

Bilbo makes no promise. He merely says “Thank you, Ori,” and then turns back to the parchments.

So Ori talks to Dwalin.

***

Dwalin knocks on Bilbo’s door late in the evening, his bedroll slung over his back. Bilbo opens, confused - it is an odd parody of their very first encounter playing out here. Only that Bilbo does not look healthy and round, and instead of a patchwork dressing gown, he has a fur robe wrapped around his body.

“Dwalin,” he mutters, and Dwalin steps in, knowing better than to give the hobbit a chance to shut the door again.

“Ori told me,” he grunts out, “Yer having trouble sleepin’.”

“Oh, well, that is…” Bilbo flusters, and then his shoulders sag, “That is true, but I don’t see…”

“Nightmares, too, laddie?” Dwalin asks.

Bilbo sighs. “Yes, but I … I …”

Dwalin nods and strips off his overcoat and things. It is warm in the chamber, almost stuffy. He sees that all fireplaces are lit, and frowns. Perhaps some fresh air –

Bilbo shudders and wraps his arms around himself. Unconsciously, perhaps, but Dwalin is very familiar with the body language of those that do not want to confess weakness. And Bilbo displays all the signs and then some.

“Ori told ye about it?” he asks.

Bilbo blinks. “What? Oh, that … that, yes. Yes, he did.”

Dwalin grunts. “Yer ready for bed?”

Bilbo blushes (prettily, Dwalin has to admit. Erebor’s fashions are quite becoming on the hobbit, the fur robe no less so), and eventually, very stiffly, leads the way to another room. This one, too, is quite luxuriously furnished – part of Thorin’s silent endeavor to make up for his misdeeds. Dwalin has to suppress a grin – if Thorin wasn’t so stubborn, he might have long realized that words would have accomplished the same a lot of easier. Bilbo still doesn’t quite share the dwarves’ appreciation of gems and jewels.

Dwalin is well prepared to sleep on the floor. Some lads cannot stand having somebody too close physically, some lash out in their nightmares. But Bilbo sits, nervously, on the far end of the bed and takes off his robe.

“It’s … there should be enough space,” he mumbles, “I … I’m …”

“Aye, you’re not taking up much space,” Dwalin bluntly agrees. The bed is large – he could probably rest on it across, too, and if the hobbit finds sharing it acceptable, then Dwalin will not protest. The thick covers look far more comfortable than the ground.

Bilbo buries himself under the blanket, and without further ado, Dwalin climbs in on the other side. The hobbit lies as stiff as a board, he notices, and frowns. Well, he won’t be able to help unless Bilbo goes to sleep.

“Have ye done this before?” he asks, “Shared a bed?”

Bilbo flinches at his question, and clears his throat. “Yes, err, that is. With cousins. When I was younger… we, we often used to … sleep together.”

“Then think of me as one of them,” Dwalin tells him, and Bilbo chuckles nervously. Yet slowly, but certainly, the tension leaves his body.

It takes a while, but eventually the hobbit is asleep and Dwalin takes the opportunity to scout a bit closer. Bilbo doesn’t react to the movement, but his sleep is visibly uneasy. His fingers twitch and trembled, and his face twists – but he is deaf to the world, and not even Dwalin touching his shoulder draws a reaction.

At first, Dwalin is heartened. He knows nightmares can grow so bad men will flinch from every touch, no matter its nature. Bilbo doesn’t flinch away, but where a hand may calm others, the hobbit fails to relax. It is strange, so before even half of the night is through, Dwalin draws Bilbo bodily against his chest, attempting to hold him until he grows calm. Let the hobbit fuss and complain once awake – Dwalin will gladly listen should it be the price for Bilbo’s sleep.

Instead he finds that Bilbo is shivering, and his hand and feet are cold, while Dwalin is sweating under all the layers. Unease blossoms in his heart. This is not only nightmares, he thinks, then, and the closer it gets to morning, the more certain he grows.

“How did ye sleep,” he asks Bilbo in the morning. The hobbit’s movements are stiff as if they pained him, and his face is chalky.

“Quite… well, I think,” Bilbo replies. There is a crease between his brows – the same Balin gets when he suffers headaches. And the lie is so hollow even a blind man could have seen through it.

“Recall any nightmares?” he asks.

Bilbo shakes his head. And abruptly stiffens.

There is a sound Dwalin has never heard him make, has heard from no living being, to be honest, and with sudden panic he rounds the bed. Bilbo has one hand under his face – one hand covered in blood.

“Oh,” he says, faintly, “I…”

When he glances up Dwalin sees that the lower half of his face is covered in blood. It’s dripping down onto his nightshirt, the sheets, the carpets - and more is gushing from his nose.

Dwalin swears under his breath, and takes Bilbo by the shoulders, guiding the stammering hobbit back on the bed. “Stay down,” he tells him, “Don’t move. I’ll be back at once!”

Then he rushes out. “Oin! Get Oin!” he yells at the closest guard he finds, “Get him here at once!”

***

Dori knocks softly on the door, heart heavy.

It has been a bit of a shock, really, with Ori rushing down, asking him to prepare a tea with special leaves from Oin, then telling him that Bilbo had collapsed with a nosebleed. He makes certain the tea is boiled to a perfect degree, since he knows these tea leaves are rare.  The aroma is sharp – not something Dori would enjoy drinking, but medical teas are not for pleasure.

The door is opened by Dwalin, who only grunts. Dori enters the room, where he finds only Oin sitting on the bed next to the hobbit. He is relieved to find that the two have been successful at banning other visitors – while he does understand concern; he also knows that to heal peace and quiet are necessary.

“The tea,” he announces, a little louder than necessary.

Oin glances over his shoulder. “Bring it over,” he says.

Dori sets the tablet down on a low table that stands next to the bed. Oin’s purse rests there with all its ointments, creams and potions, though most look untouched. In the corner Dori spies blood-stained sheets – the ones Bilbo rests on now are clean, as is the hobbit’s rather wan face.

“A nosebleed?” he asks.

Dwalin nods. “Out of nowhere. Didn’t knock his head or anything.”

“I heard men sometimes get them out of nowhere, too,” Dori offers, “It might be a sign of a weak constitution.”

With Bilbo being pale and unconscious, that does sound like a good explanation. But Oin shakes his head on the spot. “Doesn’t make sense,” he mutters, “If his constitution was so weak, why didn’t he get nosebleeds back in Mirkwood?”

Dori inclines his head. “Well, … perhaps it is due to the season?”

There is no response, but the room is very warm. Bilbo’s quarters are exceptionally well-heated – Dori knows that was part of why Bilbo got them. Once the hobbit had announced he would stay for the winder, they had all tried their best to make him comfortable.

And Dori recalls how icy the winters in Erebor had been, so they had all silently agreed to have Bilbo settle somewhere deep within the mountain – a place the cold would not reach.

But now it seems there efforts may have been in vain.

Dori sighs and the catches sight of a movement from the corner of his eye. He turns, just as Dwalin grunts “he’s coming to.”

“Bilbo,” Oin calls him, and the hobbit mumbles something incomprehensible in reply. They wait in silence as Bilbo blinks and regains his bearings.

“Oin?” the hobbit asks, his eyes still barely open.

The healer nods.

“Ay,” Dwalin says, “Had to call him after ye keeled over.”

“Oh,” Bilbo blinks and makes an effort to sit up. Dori automatically reaches out to help him – and Bilbo blinks at him in surprise. “Err, thank you. How long was I out?”

“An hour perhaps,” Oin says. He is watching Bilbo like a hawk, and Dori can’t fault him.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo mutters, “I’m supposed to meet with Balin for…”

“You will do nothing of that sort,” Oin replies – and Dori is certain that by now the entire mountain knows of Bilbo’s collapse earlier. Not because there was an announcement, but because this kind of news travels fast, “You will stay here and rest. And drink your tea.”

Dori turns to pick the still steaming cup off of the tablet. The tea is at a good temperature now, he thinks. Bilbo’s hands shake as he reaches out, and he ends up cradling the cup with both hands.

“What is it?” he pulls a face as he takes a sip.

Oin doesn’t hear the question, too busy studying Bilbo, so Dori answers. “A medical brew. Oin said it ought to help.”

Bilbo frowns and takes a second sip of the brew. It obviously does not taste any better.

“When did you start to feel poorly?” Oin asks, abruptly.

Bilbo tilts his head. “I don’t …”

“You do, most certainly,” Oin insists, and Dori has to smile at Bilbo’s dumbfounded expression, “You’ve been losing weight, hardly appearing at meals, and not getting enough sleep either. I’d guess you’ve also been having headaches, and now Dwalin tells me you collapsed. Obviously, you aren’t feeling good.”

Bilbo sets the teacup aside, and Dori makes certain it gets refilled. Perhaps, he thinks, he could look into getting some soup or stew up here, too. The hobbit isn’t protesting, and he could certainly use some meat on his bones.

“I, well, I…” Bilbo stammers, “I … I have been a bit tired, recently, yes. But I thought that was from working, I mean, in the Shire, I also was exhausted if I worked the entire day.”

“But then you didn’t skip meals,” Oin suggests.

Bilbo purses his lips. “No, …. Not often.”

“When did you skip?” Oin asks.

“When … usually when I was sick,” Bilbo replies, and Dori finds himself nodding along. This makes much more sense – Bilbo wasn’t too fond of food in Laketown either, and then, too, he slept for the majority of the time.

Oin sighs. “I don’t know much of the ailments of hobbits, so you have to help me. Do you know what sickness it is and how to cure it?”

Bilbo’s eyes grow large. “I’m not sick,” he protests, “I mean, certainly, I’m not … perfectly fine, but I’m not sick. Rather a bit unwell – nothing a bit of rest won’t cure.”

“And food,” Dori adds, “You really need to eat more.”

Their healer, however, doesn’t look happy at this announcement. Eventually, though, he straightens. “Very well, if you say so,” he tells Bilbo, “But I will check up on you later today, and don’t let me find you out of bed. And if you aren’t better in three days, we will send to Laketown.”

***

Fili sits between his brother and uncle at dinner. They’re having it in one of the small chambers – today’s council meeting was strenuous, and Fili looks forward to a long, hot bath later on. Thorin will have to join some nobles for an after-dinner consultation, but Fili is allowed to skip.

He doesn’t look forward to being king one day. And he certainly understands Thorin’s black moods.

“Isn’t Bilbo here?” Kili asks into the room, where the rest of company has gathered in their usual cheerful chaos. Bombur is shaking a ladle of Dwalin, Nori happily ignoring his brother, while Ori has a book hidden under the table.

“He’s sick,” Dori replies, “Oin told him to stay in bed today.”

“Oh, still?” Kili asks, and Fili realizes he hasn’t seen Bilbo in quite a while. Last he’d caught glimpses of the hobbit at meetings, or when Bilbo was speaking with Balin, discussing taxes, construction efforts and similar dry matters.

Dori shrugs. “It seems so. He collapsed on Dwalin earlier this morning that is when Oin and I were called.”

“Collapsed?” Thorin echoes from over Fili’s shoulder, and he can tell his uncle is concerned, “How sick is he?”

Dwarves don’t collapse unless they are close to death – but Fili knows that humans are frailer, so perhaps, hobbits are too. Still, he feels uneasy.

“According to his own words, only a little and a fair bit exhausted. Nothing rest won’t cure,” Dori relates.

“And Oin?” What did he say?” Thorin inquires.

“Well, since we don’t know much about hobbits, he decided to trust Bilbo’s judgment for now,” Dori says, “But he is keeping an eye on him.”

Thorin nods with a frown on his face. “Do that,” he tells Dori, “I will make certain nobody bothers him in the meantime.”

Fili’s glance lingers on his uncle even after he has turned back to his food. Thorin is unable to forget what happened on the parapets. What he almost did under the spell of goldsickness. And while Fili understands that it is important not to forget, he wishes his uncle could have a lighter heart.

So after dinner he offers to take some stew up to Bilbo.

The room he enters is hot and dark. Fili has to squint in order not to stumble over chairs and books, and the air grows ever more stifling.

“Bilbo,” he calls, and there is a faint sound in response.

“Bilbo, I brought something to eat,” Fili attempts to add some cheer to his voice. But when he walks into the bedchamber, he finds the hobbit on his back, and arm slung across his eyes.

“I’m not hungry,” Bilbo replies, and his face scrunches up as he smells the stew. He doesn’t remove the arm, and Fili can’t help the concern that abruptly floods his chest.  Perhaps the perspective is at fault, but Bilbo’s arm looks terrifyingly thin – little more than bone and skin.

He sets the tablet aside. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, don’t worry,” Bilbo promptly answers, though his body language says the opposite. “Just … just a headache.”

“That looks like a terrible headache,” Fili says.

He gets a sigh in reply. “It’s … well, it hurts?” Bilbo answers, “I wouldn’t know what a headache that isn’t terrible feels like.”

The chuckle is forced, and Fili wonders if he shouldn’t send for Oin. “Can I get you anything, then? Some ice?”

After all, Bilbo is not all that good at looking after himself, as their experience in Laketown proved. And after battle, Bilbo had tried to help, when his head wound kept reopening, leaving him too dizzy to walk straight.

“No, no, I’ll be alright,” Bilbo replies, “Just some peace and rest.”

“Of course,” Fili says, “I will leave you the stew then. Perhaps you’ll feel hungry later.”

“Yes, though… would you mind putting it outside? The thought of food makes me a little nauseous right now, I’m afraid.

***

Oin tries. Tries every mixture, every tincture he has ever heard of. He sends riders to Laketown and farther so they may acquire what rare and strange ingredients he needs, and yet Bilbo continues to fade in front of his eyes.

If, in the first days, the hobbit protested his bed rest frequently, these lessened fast. At the height of winter, Bilbo is barely able to leave the bed under his own power – his body is too weak and even sitting up now makes him visibly dizzy.

Most of the time he is only half conscious now, allowing Oin to poke and prod. But nothing, nothing reveals a cause. There is no congestion in the hobbit’s lungs, and all inner organs seem to be in order. No discoloration of his eyes; only a few white dots on his fingernails.

At one point, Oin abandons his post and marches to the library, demanding the ancient tomes on healing. Perhaps their ancestors knew of this, perhaps they might make sense of the symptoms. And Oin spends night reading through these; in Khuzdul, Sindarin, the languages of men – and, though rusty, he fumbles through two volumes in Quenya.

Nothing.

The symptoms are mentioned, but too commonplace. Exhaustion, lack of appetite, fierce headaches, dizziness, papery skin and white-dotted fingernails. Men say white spots on nails are like bruises. Elves suggest eating more fruit. Dwarves think a headache may suggest an evil spell, while men from the south suggest everything, from sunburn to something as insidious as a hidden head injury.

Oin ponders the notion – Bilbo had sustained a head injury in the battle, it is not impossible that it only outwardly healed, but still doing damage. But when he palpitates Bilbo’s head he finds nothing. No lump, no suspicious swelling – all he is left with is a bundle of hair clinging to his fingers.

Hair loss – it could be a symptom, though Oin suspects it is due to the lack of nourishment. They are trying their best, but with Bilbo barely conscious, it is difficult to get any food into him. Also, regardless of how thick and rich Bombur prepares them; hobbit bodies obviously need more than dwarves do.

It would have been good had they known it earlier, Oin thinks to himself. Back when they were on the road, rationing their food. They might have saved Bilbo some discomfort, then.

But it’s all for naught, now.

He doesn’t know what is ailing the hobbit, and elves, men and dwarves of former ages all would have been just as helpless. There are no writings on hobbits to be found; at least nothing that is helpful. There is one scroll from the second age that suggests they “are like rabbits, dwelling underground and eating grass”. Obviously, the dwarven writer had never been to the Shire, and Bilbo would be amused –

But Bilbo is barely conscious. And if he is, Oin tries to learn as much about hobbits as he can, though it is obvious that Bilbo does not know what is wrong, either.

And so there comes the day Oin knows that must come. He is seated at Bilbo’s bedside, taking his pulse, measuring his breathing – and finds that both are a little slow, a little shallow. He closes his eyes.

It shouldn’t be happening so fat.

It shouldn’t be happening at all.

But he cannot change it, so with a heavy heart he stands and goes to seek Thorin. 

“There is nothing I can do,” Oin tells Thorin, and watches the king despair.

***

Thorin has been told that Bilbo’s bedroom kept is as warm as dark as possible. Still, it is like walking into an oven when he first enters. There is no reaction – Bilbo’s still form is almost buried under all the blankets, and he looks terrible.

His stomach drops, and with shame in his heart Thorin closes the door behind him. How long has it been since he last sat down and talked with Bilbo? Really paid attention to him? He does not know how or when the hobbit changed so, but every step closer to the bed brings to the forefront just how sick their hobbit has become.

With a heavy sigh, Thorin drops on the chair. Bilbo looks as if asleep. His face is eerily pale and thin, and while the curls still retain their golden color, they have lost their shine. It is as if all the life has been sapped from him –

And Oin’s words echo.

Their healer knows no cure. It is … a death sentence, though Thorin’s heart stubbornly clings onto the small shard of hope left. That Bilbo will recover – when in all the weeks prior he has not done so.

Gently he unburies one of Bilbo’s hands, a small and pale thing. Bony, too, and cold. Thorin has sweat beading on his forehead, yet Bilbo is still cold.

Carefully, he envelopes Bilbo’s hand in his, rubbing circles on the back of it, and Bilbo stirs. It is a weak twitch, but then the hobbit’s eyes open and he blinks.

“Thorin?” he asks.

The king nods. “I am here,” he replies, evenly, conscious even now of Bilbo’s hand in his. It feels too much like he could break it if he pressed down too hard, and his impulsive reactions have already caused enough harm.

He should be calling Oin, though. So that they may try and get some food into the hobbit – in a desperate attempt to make him last longer.

“…why?” Bilbo asks, barely above a whisper.

Has he really been so absent? Thorin frowns; hasn’t he promised to be a better friend to Bilbo after all that happened? Has he failed, again?

“Why not,” he replies, gently, “I heard you were unwell and was worried. Though if my company bothers you, I will take my leave.”

“No,” Bilbo says, and his fingers twitch. The pressure is frighteningly weak – another testament of how frail he has become. “No, don’t … that is, if you aren’t busy, and I’m afraid I am not good company now….”

“Then I will stay,” Thorin proclaims with a smile, and Bilbo settles back against the pillow. His eyelids are drooping.

“Have you been able to settle the housing issue?” Bilbo asks, and Thorin recalls that this was the last topic Bilbo has been working on.

“There has been no truly satisfactory solution, no,” Thorin replies, “We will have to handle it on an individual basis. But you shouldn’t worry about that, you only need to concentrate on getting better.”

His voice doesn’t tremble – his heart does. Oin doesn’t have much hope, and seeing Bilbo like this – Thorin has watched many die, he recognizes the signs.

A dry chuckle is his response. “If I knew how…” Bilbo whispers, and closes his eyes. For a moment, the silence hangs over them, heavy and suffocating. “I don’t want to die … I, I know some think I should have noticed something sooner – perhaps then there would have been time to find a cure. But I thought those were ordinary headaches …”

A shudder runs through his body, and Thorin has to swallow down a knot forming in his throat. Bilbo’s eyes remain closed, but his brow is wrinkled.

“I wanted to see the Shire again,” Bilbo mumbles, “Visit Beorn, stop at Rivendell… go back to Bag End. I –“

Thorin cannot over that. He has a mountain full of gold, but cannot acquire what Bilbo desires.

He switches seats, settling down on the bed, and carefully drawing Bilbo into his arms. The hobbit is lost in his mind; he barely stirs, but trustingly curls up against Thorin’s chest. And the king under the mountain wonders what he has done to deserve this.

“I would have liked to go home,” Bilbo murmurs, and then he drifts away.

Thorin holds him close, bowing his own head. Bilbo’s curls tickle his nose, but they no longer smell of sun and summer. The body in his arms is fragile and too light, and he wonders if he shouldn’t have seen this sooner. If there had been a way to prevent this.

And if there isn’t a way to grant Bilbo’s wish.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, hunched over with his eyes burning from stubbornly withheld tears. Cursing the fates and praying for a miracle.

At some point, though, Bilbo stirs.

“Thorin,” he asks, confusion and sleep thick in his voice, “You are still here?”

“Yes,” Thorin replies, “Yes. And I won’t leave you alone again.”

***

Thorin is King, but they are a company of thirteen. They do not let their lucky member down – and already Oin has told them all what to watch for. When it is time to call for everybody.

It is three hours into Bifur’s watch, that something in the room changes. The air doesn’t move, and the fire continues to cackle. Bilbo is mostly unconscious, though sometimes, soft sounds escape his lips – he has been like this for days, and Oin has warned them that his time may be up soon.

But now – there is – Bifur blinks.

The air has changed, and the hair on his arms stands. It is – not a threat, but – he has felt it before. He has –

He looks to Bilbo. The hobbit’s face has relaxed a fraction. Drained, and –

Of course, Bifur thinks, and his heart drops. This is – he has seen this before. It’s ending. Bilbo is –

He should call for the others.

He should –

It’s beautiful day, he remembers Bofur telling him out of a nowhere, freezing, but nice. Clear – you can even see the Misty Mountains.

Bilbo mutters something, and half-a-smile forms on his face.

Bifur may have an axe in his head, but he trusts his instincts. If they recognize what is happening, if they supply him with that memory all of a sudden, there is a reason.

Bilbo always loved the open sky.

So Bifur wraps Bilbo in all the layers and blankets he finds in the room, lifts him in his arms and marches out of the door. He shuts at the surprised guard to get the king and everybody out to the gate.

Whatever may come, they will not leave their hobbit to face it alone. And if he must pass, Bifur believes underneath the blue sky to be better suited to a hobbit than under the mountain.

That in mind he rushes past dwarves, not paying mind to their surprised exclamations. Even the guards at the front gates, that look taken aback, don’t hesitate to open the doors for him.

An icy gust of wind greets him, and the light is blinding.

Bifur steps outside, and within moment, the cold air mercilessly penetrates his clothes. He squints, blinks, and slowly the world begins to form. Overhead, the sky is a deep blue, endless, without a cloud in sight. The sun is as intense as the cold – and around them, all is white and frozen.

And terribly, terribly beautiful.

Bilbo stirs under his blankets, turning his face towards the sun. And Bifur’s heart skips a beat in excitement.

Is this going to work? Will this –

“What are you doing?” Dori shouts, flying out of the gate, Gloin and Balin close behind him, “The cold isn’t good for him, don’t you know …”

Bifur’s just tells him to look.

The group edges closer and Bifur peels the blankets back. Bilbo’s face now is exposed to the sun, and somehow the hobbit’s features are relaxed, his breathing calm. He is still terribly pale, but – and maybe it’s only the sunlight – but he doesn’t look to be on death’s door any longer.

Voices grow loud in the background – the rest of their company has arrived.

“I don’t understand,” Oin mutters, glancing at Bilbo’s face. “I don’t…”

Bifur says something, and Bofur picks it up. “The sun!” he exclaims, “It was the sun.”

“I never heard of something like that,” Gloin protests, while Oin frowns thoughtfully.

Balin clears his throat. “I haven’t heard of it, either – but it makes sense. Remember his home – it had a lot of windows, and I think the Shire is a fairly sunny region in general, judging by the crops we saw.”

“But Bilbo didn’t know either…” Fili mumbles, wide-eyed.

Bifur can tell they are all exhilarated, but afraid to rejoice yet. Even he is afraid to proclaim the danger passed yet, though he can sense death’s cold hand has withdrawn.

“Yes, but hobbits don’t travel much, as he told us,” Balin replies, “So they probably do not know they need sunlight.”

“Is that it? Is that truly the cure?” Thorin asks, looking scared to believe it.

Oin sighs. “He isn’t out of the woods, yet. But, well – it makes sense, and I think he is looking a bit better already.”

“He won’t die?” Kili bursts out.

Oin does not answer, instead looks down at Bilbo’s face. Much of the discomfort is gone, and basked in sunlight even Bilbo’s hair has regained some of its glow. In his heart, Bifur is confident he will recover.

***

And it is a surprisingly fast recovery, Nori acknowledges, when barely six nights later he comes to bring Bilbo outside, and finds the hobbit up on his own feet.

Bilbo smiles. “Your turn today?”

Nori inclines his head. “I suppose you’re feeling better?”

“Quite,” Bilbo replies. He is still pale, and will remain so for a while. Nori, though, is content to let him totter and stumble outside on his own two feet – he knows what these accomplishments mean. And it is rather hard to believe, that only days ago he was about to die.

Now, though, Bilbo still allows the dwarves to coddle him. Wrap him into several layers of blankets, because while he may need the sun, it is still the middle of winter outside, and they’d all rather be on the safe side.

Today Bilbo has brought a book. Nothing related to work – Balin and Oin are keeping him banned from any official scrolls for a good while longer – but a collection of ancient dwarvish tales. The hobbit is in the habit of nodding off during the day, though the occasions are growing sparse.

And once Nori unwraps the biscuits Bombur sent up from the kitchen, Bilbo’s eyes light up.

Gandalf war right, Nori thinks, hobbits are truly remarkable creatures.

_Fin_


	23. Paid with Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All except Fili and Kili die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minifill from the HKM. Went sideways... alas.   
> Prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=13181373#t20745917
> 
> Also: Double Update time. Because this is short and the following episode is a fill that went astray.

“Rise,” the old councilor from the Iron Hills proclaims and Fili stands.

This is what it all was for, he thinks as gazes at unfamiliar faces. The reforged crown or Erebor sits heavily on his head, and the finery is made heavier by the responsibility settling on his shoulders. It is a weight he will have to bear from now on.

Bear it or perish in the attempt.

The dwarves of Erebor bow before their new King. They are strangers – returnees, soldiers and mercenaries. More are on their way – not long until caravans will arrive daily. To Fili, the numbers today are almost too large- how can he be expected to rule over them when he does not know them. When he does not know this kingdom beyond the tales Thorin shared ages ago?

When there is no one but Kili to stand at his side? (Though, now, his brother, too, is kneeling, when Fili thinks he shouldn’t. They fought for this mountain together, why should their paths separate now? Too many have been lost already).

He wishes he had Balin – hear his counsel. Fili recalls being young, bored at the lessons on history and politics. If he could turn back time, he would listen. Listen, and ascertain that Balin does not die the way he did – alone among a frantic troupe of elvish healers.

Spider venom, Fili recalls. Thranduil – who is not here for the coronation, but he will come tomorrow – had been, perhaps truly, grieved as he had announced the news. The elves had tried their best, but the venom had been too strong, and Balin’s body too weak from age and malnourishment.

Dwalin had threatened to take the elf King’s head in return.

Fili closes his eyes and banishes the memory. He will never forget Dwalin cradling his brother’s still body, yelling, while Thorin’s glare was so fierce it could have set the place aflame. Thranduil had offered no apologies. Yet he had also let them go without further demands.

Now, Fili directs a benevolent smile at his subjects, and proceeds with the short speech he and Kili prepared.

“Long has the road been that brought us here,” he says, “Long and fraught not only with peril, but also with danger and loss. That we stand here today, we do owe the incredible bravery of many.  Not only dwarves, but also to the men of Laketown, the elves of Mirkwood, the Eagles and Beorn that helped defend this kingdom from orcs and goblins.”

It is not that dwarvish to thank others, but the gesture is well-received all the same. And in his mind he thinks he can see Bofur smile when he continues.

“With their help this kingdom was reclaimed. With their help it will be rebuilt.”

Bofur’s death had been a harsh blow to all of them. He’d always been so cheerful, reliable and optimistic. Even in the darkness of Mirkwood he had not lost faith. He’d smiled right up to the end, and gone to sleep.

Not telling anybody of the infected cut on his lower back that had slowly, but steadily been poisoning his blood. And one morning, when they’d all been anxiously waiting for word from Dain, sitting on their reclaimed gold, he had not woken.

It’s bitter memory to recall, now, and the crown is heavy.

“For it would be foolish to believe we could rebuild alone what was built with many. The mountain may gift us gold and precious gems. Our friends and family will shape them into treasures – treasures we will give to our neighbors so they may gift us their riches in return.”

Bombur had vocally complained about the lack of food at the end. He’d been thinner then, thinner than Fili can ever recall having seen him. Now he cannot be certain if not the lack of nourishment caused that fatal lapse in concentration that allowed an orc spear to slip under Bombur’s guard and run him through.

Fili hadn’t been there to see it. He’d seen the body, later, and hoped it had been fast (he doesn’t think it was).

Oin, too, had criticized their diets – he’d been the first one to ask them to ration the food back in Mirkwood. In the end, the elves hadn’t been able to safe them, though Fili knows Kili has spoken to Thranduil about reclaiming his remains. (At least Thranduil had given his word that the body had been preserved to the best of their abilities. Elves, Fili thinks, have a peculiar respect for death that few mortals share).

“And this trade will open our mountain to new riches. With destinations, far and near, across the sea and the mountains, we will exchange our treasures. Erebor’s gems shall sparkle in Rhun and far too the east, and we will have horses from Rohan and silks from the far south!” Fili proclaims.

The air feels good. His audience believes his words, and Fili hopes his vision will come true. It is rewarding – and yet –

No treasure can ever replace those he lost.

When he closes his eyes he can still see what has been seared onto the back of his eyelids. Gloin’s peaceful expression even though the lower half of his body was gone. And if Fili hadn’t seen so many deaths then he would have thrown up. Now he only recalls numbness. A numbness that lingers until today.

“Together, we will rebuild this kingdom,” Fili tells them, “Rebuild it for those that lost their lives here and on the road, for us and for generations to come.”

May they meet a better fate, Fili thinks, and remembers Dori and Ori falling from the tree. The eagles had not been able to save them and the grief had lingered. Everything that happened after had tasted of defeat. No matter their success, and Fili hopes that Nori got away.

Nori’s is the only body that could not be recovered. But much of the battlefield had burned down, bodies charred beyond recognition. Fili prays Nori got away, and is now causing uproars in distant lands, that mischievous spark back in his eyes.

But it is unlikely. After Dori’s and Ori’s deaths, their company had struggled forward, their joy gone. Where Thorin’s apology to Bilbo should have been a cause for celebration, it tasted of ash. And all the hobbit had managed was a pale quirk of his lips.

Fili doesn’t think he has Bilbo seen truly smile since.

And he won’t, ever again.

Recovering the hobbit’s body had been devastating. After all they had put him through, all the anger and distrust, scorn and hateful words – after all that he had not run away.  Gone back to his far away home in peaceful and plentiful lands.  Instead they had found him pale and lifeless on the battlefield, curled into a small, small ball. It hadn’t been quick, and he must have been terribly alone.

Fili swallows down the knot in his throat. There is no use to tear up now – Bilbo would have wanted to see this kingdom reclaimed.

“Rise,” Fili tells his subjects, “Let us celebrate. Remember those that were lost and hope for what is to come.”

Drink to Thorin and Dwalin, who died fighting back to back. Both had lived to see the new morning dawn, immobile on the battlefield. Azog’s headless body at their feet. To Bifur who’d fought with reckless abandon until a sword had cut through his armor and pierced his heart. To Oin who had worked until the end, until he’d collapsed, clutching his chest – and thus the last of their company passed on.

Victory was costly.

“It is done,” Thorin had whispered to his nephews, “Erebor is reclaimed. I … I am sorry I will not be there. But I trust you, my nephews, to lead it. … To … settled old debts and start a new future. A better future.”

And then he had closed his eyes and woken no more.

Fili swallows and grips his brother’s hand beneath the table. Looks upon the celebrating strangers. He does not know whether to hate them – they are sharing the spoils bought with the lives of Fili’s and Kili’s companions – but it is for this carefree happiness and optimism that Thorin set out to reclaim the kingdom.

He will grieve forever. But Erebor may look to a better future.


	24. Necromancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves cast Bilbo out after the Arkenstone fiasko. The hobbit in turn is persuaded by the ring to use its powers to turn the tide of the battle. But necromancy has its price, and Bilbo finds he is not too good at holding onto grudges. (Beware of character death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is [art](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/post/125880665027/necromancy-episodes-from-middle-earth) for this by the fantastic [striving-artist](www.striving-artist.tumblr.com). Please take a look!

 Blood keeps dripping into his eyes, blurring his vision. Bilbo stumbles - he does not know how he walks, does not dare to look at his ankle. It throbs with each movement, the ache one of many. His entire body burns, but it is nothing against the hollowness in his heart.

His vision is too spotty to seek out the faces of his dwarves - his former friends. He hears whispers, spies glimpses - Balin's white beard, Fili's blond hair, Gloin's boots - and he knows they are all here, all watching silently as he struggles to make his way from the mountain. Their silence is worse than Thorin's fury.

But he does not know what he expected. They were silent, before, too. They did not stop Thorin, not even when the King threatened to kill him.

Somewhere in his splotchy vision daylight beckons. He stumbles, a nasty throb running from his ankle to his side, and setting fire in his ribs. His breath hitches – he clearly recalls Thorin’s heavy boots connecting.

All he wanted was to save their lives.

Bilbo totters outside, and the sunlight blinds him. His heart aches just as fiercely as his body does. Sadness is mingling with frustration – why can’t those stubborn dwarves see reason? This is death.

An icy gust of wind blows past him, numbs his aching body and he squints in the pale sunlight. Before Erebor lie the ruins of Dale, now alive with two hosts – too far away to make out individuals, but they will look here soon enough. Their spies will report Bilbo’s disgrace.

The strand of hair that the wind blows into his face is soaked in blood.

Perhaps he will perish before the battle even happens.

Perhaps this will all end in darkness. Isn’t it happening already? The gold sickness has taken the dwarves, greed and grief blinds men and an old grudge overwhelms all rationality on the side of the elves? How is this different from the last time? How…

Bilbo turns on his heel. Lifts his aching head, looks at his dwarves – still his after all that they have abandoned him – through the blood and speaks.

“When the next dragon comes,” he tells them, “Think better of me.”

***

He doesn’t remember making it down from the mountain. When he comes to, he is laid out on a cot in a tent, the light low. Gandalf is beside him, and the wizard leans over. “Still, Bilbo, stay still, dear boy.”

Bilbo does, because his body aches fiercely. A dull throb emerges from his ankle and runs all the way up. His knee feels wrong, twisted, and he finds he can’t breathe deeply. Every muscle hurts, though the worst pain cuts deeper.

With consciousness, the memories have returned. Betrayal on the faces of those dear to him. Cursing him. Casting him out.

Bilbo closes his eyes.

Gandalf looks upon him with concern. “My dear hobbit, what happened to you?” He shakes his head, because he knows the answer. “You did not deserve this.”

Indeed, Bilbo thinks, and something dark stirs in his chest. He only wanted to help. To save them. And this is the reward. Perhaps he should have stayed in the Shire. Perhaps it would have been best for all -

“Rest a little longer,” Gandalf says, and Bilbo returns to the darkness.

***

He heals, but it is a slow process. Resources are sparse, and with a battle about to come, no party is willing to waste scarce resources on a hobbit they have no real sympathy for. He may have bartered an alliance, but the means are frowned upon by all.

With the exception of Bard and Gandalf, Bilbo has no soul to speak to, and he misses his dwarves. Though they probably do not return the sentiment.

He knows that. He would have left a long time ago if he wasn’t bound by his injuries. It takes a week before he can so much as hobble, and though most in the camp may not like him, he is barred from leaving.

(It would be death).

The darkness in his mind lingers. Bilbo stands upon the shores of the Long Lake, Laketown’s scorched ruins to his left. Smaug’s grave, he thinks. And soon it will be grave to many more.

Orcs and goblins – armies of them – Bard had asked him to flee, for there is little hope to survive what must come. And in his heart Bilbo feels the growing darkness. How the air grows steadily colder.

Soon, they will be here, and his efforts will come to naught.

All will die, like the dragon did.

***

It will work, the voice whispers. The power coils in Bilbo’s veins, pliant and ready. He should not use it, perhaps, but the stench of burning flesh wafts over.

“Very well,” he announces to the empty air, straightens and sets out to do what no hobbit has dared to do in an age. The ring throbs with power, the Arkenstone glows. Bilbo closes his eyes, concentrates. Feels the ground, the plants. Blood, slaughter, cold metal, hatred. The icy waters of the lake.

Deeper and deeper his conscious sinks. Below the ice, down into the darkness. Something large awaits, he can feel it stirring. Answering his call.

The moment the connection sparks into existence a shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“Smaug,” he whispers and opens his eyes to see the ice on the lake explode. In a fountain of steam, icicles and fire the golden shape of a gigantic dragon emerges. His scales sparkles, and wide wings propel him up.

“You have brought me back,” he hisses.

Bilbo’s heart is pounding, and he cannot quite believe that this is real. But there is power humming in his veins, and his fingers tingle, and he knows Smaug must feel it to. Around them, the air trembles – this is no simple magic.

The dragon spreads his wings, hovering across from Bilbo.

“I did,” the hobbit replies, breathless, “I did.”

“For what purpose?” Smaug asks, swishing his long tail across the water. It explodes into shards of diamonds, glittering in the darkness, and Bilbo smiles.

“Burn the scum,” he says, “Burn them all.”

“And the dwarves?” Smaug inquires.

“Do not hurt them,” Bilbo says, “Neither the elves nor the men. I have no issue with them.”

They may all think him a traitor, and his wounds ache still. But already so many have died. Bilbo will have peace.

Smaug growls. “I will burn them all.”

The sentiment echoes, and seems to envelope Bilbo. Something pulses within him – anger, hate – pay them back what they made you endure, it suggests. Make them see, make them suffer the same.

And that little golden trinket in his pocket once again feels unduly heavy.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “No. The orcs only.”

And whatever filth has joined their ranks, he thinks. The others will see what they wrought when Bilbo returns with the dragon. That will be his revenge.

He closes his hand around the ring, and it pulses warmly in response. It is a desolate situation, to stand on this lonely shore in the bitterly cold night, a magic ring, and elvish blade, the cursed Arkenstone and a dead dragon for company.

What has become of you, Bilbo asks himself. This was not the adventure he set out on. This -

“Very well,” Smaug says, interrupting his thoughts, “I will carry you to the mountain.”

And then Bilbo climbs onto his back. He has ridden horses, ponies – even a giant eagle. He is not certain if ever a being on Middle Earth has ridden a dragon. Though, truly, he is barely more than a scale on Smaug’s back. A speck, invisible to the eye.

Yet, when the dragon soars up, and the icy night air alights around them, Bilbo feels the battle coming to a stop. Eyes turn to the sky, wide in disbelief. Orcs, goblins, men, elves and dwarves all stare up to the returned dragon. 

Smaug spreads his wings and the scales glitter a bloody shade of red in the fire shine.

***

There is a roar spreading over the battlefield. Ranks fall apart, as orcs, goblin, men, dwarves and elves stare in horror. The bats flee, terrorized, and all Bilbo feels in a satisfied thrum running through his body. Smaug practically glides over their tiny heads, dismissing the archers. All black arrows have been shot – and what is there to fear when he has been brought back from the dead already.

They are all so small, Bilbo thinks. Small and insignificant, just like he has been to them. A messenger at the most, a rat at the worst. They never held any true sympathies for him, only his usefulness ever appealed.

The ring hums in agreement. And why not burn them all? Now, that the tides have turned – now that Bilbo is the one who wields power.

“No,” Bilbo whispers, “No, I will not burn them. I shall show them mercy – for what is death in comparison to having to live to see?”

An odd notion of slow agreement comes from the ring and Smaug snorts. “Truly, you are interesting, ring-winner.”

Bilbo chuckles, thinking that he must indeed be interesting, since Hobbits do not apply themselves to strategy or war –and for that reason alone he differs from all on the ground below. He shifts his grip on the scales, takes a deep breath.

“Burn them,” he whispers, and Smaug descends.

***

“What sorcery is this?” Bard whispers, clutching his bow, “The dragon was dead – I killed it myself!”

Next to him Thranduil pales, and Gandalf frowns. Balin – the only dwarf with them – looks on in despair. “We know,” he mutters, “This… is this retribution?”

Gandalf glances at him, and then over to where Thorin is fighting. Dwarves have the misfortune of attracting dragons, but Smaug was the last –

“This is a greater evil,” Thranduil announces darkly, and holds his sword just a bit tighter.

And Gandalf notices the new current in the air. If there was darkness before – this is deeper, thicker, more powerful and yet subtle. It is something he hasn’t felt in a very long time – the air seems to sing.

Without further ado he brings down his staff, yelling the spell for evil to reveal itself.

The blast kills several orcs nearby, but does not so much as faze the dragon. Still, a moment later, the creature turns its head and changes direction.

And when it descends, Gandalf catches sight of a familiar figure on its back and his heart drops.

“What did you do?” Gandalf shouts, and takes a step into Bilbo’s direction. Behind the hobbit, Smaug unfolds his wings and hisses – his chest glows red.

Bilbo looks at him with dead eyes. There is sadness in them, too, but of a pain that is so deep that is has grown dull, and Gandalf is terrified of what they have done to him. No hobbit is supposed to look like this, least of all Bilbo.

“I tried everything,” Bilbo says, “Everything and it was not enough.”

“But the dragon…” Bard protests, “How is the dragon back?”

Smaug’s eyes narrow – he recognizes the man, but a motion from Bilbo and the dragon stays in place.

Then the hobbit draws something from his pocket.

It is a small golden ring –

And Thranduil gasps and Gandalf remembers, and it is terrible beyond imagination. This cannot be – how can Bilbo, how could he possess the one? How? When? For how long has the hobbit been under the spell?

“This is impossible!” Thranduil shouts with a vehemence that makes many warriors turn their heads. The elven king is stark white and he stalks forward.  “The one was lost long ago. Disappeared when Isildur fell, never to be found. It cannot be…”

This is what you are, then, Bilbo thinks and looks at the ring. It pulses nonchalantly in reply.

The greatest weapon of the enemy. The ring that once decided a war. The one that can restore a dark lord to power.

A part of him is repulsed. This is a token of great evil – has it not shown so by raising a dead dragon? By wielding such a huge, unnatural power?

“Bilbo,” a new voice calls out and it is Thorin. He leans heavily on his sword, bleeding from several cuts, but his eyes are clear and pleading, “Master Baggins.”

Bilbo turns his head, and Gandalf sees something spark in his eyes.

“I would apologize if you will have my word,” Thorin offers, “I will offer you my head, should you want to take it. I deeply regret that it has taken battle for me to understand your intentions, to recognize my own blindness – and there is nothing I can do to undo what I have wrought upon you.”

Gandalf thinks about Bilbo limping back from the mountain, covered in blood and with ribs and his ankle broken. There is much to atone for.

“I have to right to make any further demands of you,” Thorin says, and then surprises all by falling to his knees, “But I beg you – remember, Smaug is a dark creature. Do not forsake the innocent to his evil – take your revenge on myself and my company, on those that wronged you. But, please, spare the others.”

Bilbo frowns.

“You told us that when the dragon comes next to think better of you,” Thorin recalls, “And so it has happened. We all regret what we said to you – what we did. Your wish has been fulfilled – so I beg you – do not needlessly slaughter those innocent of harming you.”

“I will have your head,” Smaug hisses, extending his neck and breathing a cloud of hot air toward them. Gandalf does not flinch, but watches Bilbo intensively – the hobbit’s expression is no longer quite so dead.

***

Thorin is right, Bilbo thinks. The battle is won – the orcs and goblins are fleeing – and the company has seen their error. That was all he wanted, all his heart longed for –

But he could have revenge, a dark part of his mind urges, make them feel the way he felt. Hurt them. Unleash Smaug upon all of them. Set the world aflame.

For a moment he sees it – Laketown burning. The ruins of Dale on fire. And Erebor a red hot glow inside the mountain. Let it burn until nothing remains, so that the world will know what happens to those that hurt him. That he will not stand by quietly – that he is not one to be cast aside…

Bilbo shakes his head. His mother taught him not to make decisions in a fit of pique, and though he has been angry for a long time, he does not feel normal. Or clear of mind.

He joined this quest on his own volition. The decisions were his own, and he had known what they might cost him. What use was it to revive the dragon if he destroys all? If he just recreates the initial situation – the one he originally aimed to undo?

Those dwarves may have harmed him – but can he truly deny an entire people their homeland? Slaughter those that came to their help?

Once he shuddered at killing a single orc. So how is he now contemplation erasing three kingdoms from the map, just because he has the power to do so?

“Let me burn them,” Smaug hisses, “Oakenshield. The wizard and the elf. Let me roast the bowman and his kin – let me burn the forest.”

“No,” Bilbo replies, and a shudder runs through his body. Something shifts in his chest, where the power of the ring used to hum.

You must kill them, something hisses in his mind, but the voice is unfamiliar and dissonant. Like nails on a chalkboard.

“No,” Bilbo repeats, “Your purpose has been fulfilled.”

Smaug rears up on his legs, roars furiously, but no fire is cast, and suddenly a bright spell from Gandalf slams into Bilbo. He’s taken off his feet, feels something give in his ribcage, and suddenly his heart is beating, and the pain feels fresh and unmuted, and there is earth under his fingers –

There will be a price, the voice hisses, viciously. A price for what he has done.

And that is alright, Bilbo thinks, raising the dead is no natural feat, after all. He will pay the price.

He coughs, sees a shadow whirl away, as the ring drops from his pocket, and Thranduil is shouting, somebody runs, but his vision grows blurry. The wind roars – or maybe that is his blood, he doesn’t quite know – and large hands, but not large enough to belong to a man or an elf, pick him up, pull him against a broad chest.

Coughs rattle his chest again, and he can’t breathe – something blocks his lungs, and suddenly something warm and wet spills from his lips.

“Gandalf,” Thorin is calling and his arms close around Bilbo, “Gandalf, do something, he is…”

Warm. For the first time since it all began, Bilbo feels warm again. The horror is gone, the numbness has disappeared, and there is somebody holding him close. A beating heart next to his ear, and it’s even one of his dwarves.

***

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts, “Bilbo!”

He clutches the hobbit tighter, but the small body is limp in his arms. Dark blood drips from Bilbo’s lips as he pales with each passing moment. This is nothing Thorin can shield him from – no enemy he can cast his own body in front of, no matter how dearly he wishes.

Bilbo’s eyelashes flutter, and fall close, and Thorin yells for Gandalf, for Thranduil – if they can help, he will give them the Arkenstone and all wealth of Erebor.

If they can just –

Gandalf retracts his outstretched hand. “This is no evil I can fight,” he admits.

Thorin can feel Bilbo’s heartbeat slowing down, and the hobbit’s body feels so terribly fragile in his arms. There are still bruises on his face from Thorin’s attack.

He can’t die like this.

He can’t …

Bard rests a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. And though Thorin knows it, he does not want to believe it. For a moment he squeezes his eyes shut, ignores the burn in them, and then opens them to glance down.

In his arms, Bilbo looks small, almost like a child. His face is relaxed, pale, but peaceful, and Thorin cleans the blood from his chin in a gentle move. This being from the kindly west ought not have been here – the battlefield was never a place for him, even though he was the one who turned the tide.

Thorin takes a deep breath.

Bilbo is the one who won them their mountain. The one whom they owe their kingdom.

And he will not let it be forgotten.

***

“What a strange creature,” Thranduil muses, “To wield the power of the ring, and yet to be able to resist it in the end.”

The grime has been cleared from his face and clothes, and while Gandalf, too, has changed, the battle is clearly written into his features. Grief bows his back, and he is glad the dwarves are not here  - to them, Bilbo, in the end, has been a precious friend.

Thranduil does not allow himself to feel affection. Too many lives have passed by him, too much desolation lingers in his memory. But something in his chest stirred that day –

Fear at first. When he saw the dragon. Beheld the enemy’s weapon.

And then…

“Even I did not expect this to be within him,” Gandalf mutters, “I knew there was more to him than the eye could see, but not this.”

There is true heartbreak on his face. Had Gandalf known, Thranduil thinks, he probably would have never invited the hobbit along. Not when all came to such a bitter ending.

“And yet it brought forth the one ring,” Thranduil replies. This is the one miracle gained from the mad affair – the ring is theirs, and they only need to destroy it. Treacherous as it is, Thranduil believes that few who have witnessed Bilbo wield it would fall to its power. Not, since they all witnessed what happens to those that use its powers and find the results disagreeable.

Gandalf sighs. “But at what price?”

_Fin_


	25. A Long Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin drops Bilbo from the gate. The hobbit survives, badly injured, and then suddenly an army of goblin and orcs arrives on the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canonical Character Deaths, Blood and Violence
> 
> This combines movie and book canon, so Fili, Kili, Oin and Bofur are in Laketown.

It is with a heart full of dread that Fili mounts his pony that bleak winter morning. The air tastes of ash, and the grey clouds promise snow and early darkness. His brother’s head is bowed, too, and even Bofur displays none of his characteristic cheer when they ride out of the smoldering ruin that a few nights ago was Laketown.

The screams of that night still echo in his ears.

And the accusing glares cast their way hurt – had not the dwarves promised wealth and glory? Had not Thorin stood before them and vowed to let them share in the riches of the mountain? Instead a dragon came, and Fili has heard Thorin refused to part with his wealth.

That is why Oin, Bofur, he and Kili accompany Bard, Gandalf and Thranduil today. They are hostages, even if Bard has been gracious enough not to treat them like this so far – they’ve been allowed to help as much as they can.

Perhaps they can help today, too, Fili thinks with a heavy heart. Perhaps he and Kili may succeed where Bard and Thranduil failed – perhaps their words will rouse their uncle from whatever madness he fell prey to.

But then they reach the mountain and Thorin steps forward, high above their heads and even from distance Fili realizes that his features are set in stone. The wind howls over a landscape as devastated as he feels.

“Are you threatening me?” Thorin thunders from the gate, shoulders squared. He has a new coat, one made from velvet and furs – it flutters in the wind, making his uncle look like a vengeful creature from the neither worlds – like something that isn’t his uncle. “Do you intend to force my hand? Do you ransom my kin like a common robber?”

Fili watches as the company behind Thorin shifts. Dwalin is gripping his axe, Balin’s frown betrays nothing, and Ori looks distinctly uncomfortable. Next to Fili, Bofur waves awkwardly at his brothers, and Bifur rolls his eyes in return, while Bombur shrugs – but the air is tense, and to Fili, the ten up on the gate look unwell, their faces pale and haggard.

Then again, he can still see the horror of the dragon’s attack written all over Kili’s face, so they probably do not look much better.

“We intend no such action, and I would thank you not to insult our honor further,” Bard returns, voice strong and even, “Your kin are well and shall be treated well – they are here today to demonstrate that we honor our promise and will take care of all that seek shelter with us. And we are asking you for naught but to do the same.”

“And so do we,” Thorin returns, “But we do not do so with two armies behind us while holding a sword to your kin’s throat. This is not the same – it is not I, but you, who is not honoring their promise!”

“Thorin, please!” Kili shouts abruptly, “People are starving! They need your help!”

Fili’s heart skips a beat, but whatever hope there might have been flickers out when he watches Thorin’s face. Their uncle looks at his youngest nephew and his expression grows colder still.

“Have you turned my nephews into your dogs?” he asks, and his eyes turn to Thranduil, “Doing your bidding, so that I may fold and leave my kingdom to your wishes?”

Thranduil urges his steed forward and the group parts for him. “We have done none of this sort, King under the Mountain,” he spits the title like an insult, “Your nephews, however, are sane, where you pretend to be blind and chose madness. But negotiating will be of no further use – we will buy our share, then.”

“There is nothing you could offer me that – “ Thorin begins.

But then a man in inconspicuous grey robes rides forward, a wooden chest held before him. On a nod from Thranduil he flips the lid open.

And Fili’s jaw drops as, for the first time in his life, he sees the Arkenstone. Nestled among blankets the stone emits a bright light, enchanting and bewitching. Only Thorin’s angered shout of “How came you by this?!” draws Fili from its spell. 

“Did you steal it? Who was the thief that – “ Thorin rages, while Thranduil, calmly, shakes his head. “We are no thieves. The Arkenstone was delivered to us in promise of a share.”

There is hint of a smug smile on Thranduil’s face, but worry on Bard’s. Fili’s heart is pounding in his ears – he did not know this, and neither did Kili, or Oin, or Bofur  - and who did it and when did that happen? Thorin will be furious, and this is terrible, though he understands that it will also make Thorin pay.

But –

“Then I am betrayed,” Thorin states in a deceptively calm voice, as he turns to his companions up on the gate with him, “Who was the one to give my greatest treasure to my enemy?”

Fili holds his breath – he prays no one will answer, because this cannot end well, and he cannot think of one who would have done this. Dared to do it, knowing Thorin’s wrath, knowing how this would end –

And Bilbo sighs, shoulders slumping. “I did.”

Fili’s heart stops, and it feels as if the ground had dropped out from underneath his feet. He can only stare in horror as Thorin whirls around and advances on the paling hobbit.

“Betrayer!” Thorin roars, and Bilbo has just enough time to raise his hands, before Thorin grabs him by the throat. Balin shouts in protest, Ori flinches and a human archer near Fili notches an arrow to his bow, but Thorin takes no note of any but himself and Bilbo. With brutal strength he spins both of them around, and Bilbo loses his footing, and doesn’t find it, because Thorin has taken a step forward, and Fili doesn’t want to believe what he is seeing –

The uncle he knows is not capable of such cruelty. Cannot –

But Bilbo’s hanging in the air, hands clutching desperately at Thorin’s arms, and whatever he says is lost on the wind, but Thorin’s voice thunders with curses.

“Stop it!” Bard shouts up, “Stop it, Thorin! Stop this madness!”

“Thorin!” Kili screeches, and Fili’s heart clenches at the desperation in his brother’s voice.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” And the man bearing the Arkenstone throws back his hood, and Fili has never been so glad to see Gandalf – the wizard looks as grim and fierce as ever, and surely, he’ll make it alright now –

“Stop this at –“

And that is the moment Bilbo falls. There is a short scream – a split, heart-stopping moment when Fili stares and thinks this cannot be real, this must be a nightmare, this cannot happen – and then, with a dull thud, the burglar’s body hits the ground.

Up above, Thorin remains, frozen, hands outstretched. Pieces of worn fabric clutched in his fists and he is staring at the empty air, a hint of surprise on his features.

“Bilbo!”

Gandalf surges forward, and Fili remembers to urge his pony forward, while his mind remains caught in a loop. This cannot be how it ends, this cannot be real. How could Bilbo have fallen, how could the ground so suddenly have dropped away from underneath his feet?

Bard is on his knees and Gandalf drops down beside him, Thranduil lingers behind them. Fili, numbly, gets down from his pony, his brother's sharp gasps accompanying all the way forward. His knees feel weak, even though he only sees rock.

Rock and the backs of their allies? Captors? Will they now take their revenge on Fili and Kili?  He shakes the though off, though he strangely does not feel concerned for his own fate. Perhaps this is all an illusion...

Perhaps -

"No!" Kili shrieks and falls forward, "No, Bilbo!"

Fili catches sight of a limb hand lying on the ground, upturned, relaxed and its white skin mottled with blood. Everything else is hidden by Bard and Gandalf, and Fili’s stomach turns. He hears Kili gasping, sobbing, but it doesn’t make sense – this cannot be happening, this –

“Thranduil,” Gandalf shouts and turns to glance to the elven king, “This needs your help.”

Thranduil’s expression remains cold, unreadable. He casts a short, calculating glance up above – but when Fili looks, the dwarves have left the gate – before he turns to Gandalf. “Very well.”

And when Gandalf makes space for Thranduil, Fili sees the damage the fall has wrought on their burglar’s fragile body. A dwarf may have stood a chance, but Bilbo’s chest looks concave, and his leg is bent at an ankle that is not possible, and there is blood running from his nose and his mouth – and is that a bone - ?

Then Thranduil kneels down and Bilbo is, once more obscured from sight. Fili is left reeling.

***

Kili spends the night treading circles into the muddy ground before the healer’s tent. He’d seen Bilbo, silent and unmoving on the ground, and thought him dead had not Gandalf been convinced otherwise. For a terrible moment – one that had felt like an eternity – Thranduil and Gandalf had worked their magic; then the elven King had turned and declared Bilbo ready for transport.

Gandalf had risen, face grey, and Kili hadn’t been able not to ask – not with his heart in his throat and his world so off its axis that he felt dizzy. “How is he?” he had all but shouted at Gandalf, “How is he?”

Gandalf, exhausted and weary, had frowned, and it had been Thranduil who had answered. “He is alive. For now, and I do not know for how much longer.”

And with that they had been left. The main host of men and elves had turned back to their camp, paying no attention to their potential hostages. “Shall we go join the others?” Fili had asked, then. But Kili had been able to tell that his brother had been just as disturbed as him at that monster wearing their uncle’s face.

Bofur had shaken his head. “Still some repairs to finish,” he had muttered and turned his pony. And so they had followed the men back, until Bard had seen them and told them they were free to leave - they are not hostages, after all.

Hours later, Kili is certain he does not want to join his uncle now. Not, when the sight of his nephews with men and elves had unsettled him – but the sight of the Arkenstone at the same place had thrown him into a blind fury.

He is drawn from his bleak contemplations when Oin emerges from the tent, grey-faced. Kili stops himself from shouting at the last moment – the majority of the camp, including his brother, is finally asleep – and hurries over instead.

“How is Bilbo?” he asks, and can’t quite keep the hope from his voice. The blood on Oin’s clothes makes his stomach churn, and suddenly his heart is racing.

The healer takes a deep breath. “Alive for now, and that’s already more than any of us could have hoped for.”

“Will he – “ and Kili finds he can’t finish the question. Live? Die? Heal?

Oin shrugs wearily. “If he makes it through the night, he may just live. By the way, lad, would you mind sitting with him? The elvish healers are finishing up, but we’ll have to look after the other patients. And I think it’d be good if one of us stayed with our burglar – no matter how it ends.”

The responsibility is like a crushing weight on his chest, and Kili can only nod. He won’t let Bilbo alone. Not after the company has already failed him so horribly.

“Good lad,” Oin claps his shoulder, “Now, I have to go and see my other patients. If I see Gandalf I’ll tell him to come.”

Kili takes a deep breath, steels himself and wordlessly enters the tent. The elvish healers nod at him in passing – there is little animosity here among the dead and the dying, Kili has found. Too many of those that survived the wrath of the dragon succumb to their wounds day by day – a lot of them children.

Silently Kili draws back the curtain that is supposed to keep out the cold air. The fabric and the fact that he has a tent to himself speak for both, the severity of Bilbo’s condition, and the high regard Thranduil and Bard hold him in. There is even incense in a corner, but it cannot obscure the scent of blood and sickness.

On silent feet, Kili approaches the cot. It is large, it’s size designed for men or elves – it would make a dwarf look small, and Bilbo is practically swallowed up in its sheer size. A silken coverlet is wrapped rather firmly around the hobbit’s body – to keep him from moving. Yet, Kili knows that the lack of further blankets reveals just how afraid the healers were to put any sort of pressure on Bilbo’s chest.

There is another bandage wrapped around Bilbo’s eyes, barely darker than the hobbit’s pallor. Yet Bilbo is breathing, and with pursed lips, Kili drops onto one of the stools left standing at the cot’s side.

And then there is nothing to be done but wait.

***

Bofur keeps his hands busy. It’s what keeps his mind from wandering, and reluctantly lets the men and elves accept him into their midst. He has always been good with wood, and with the air growing colder each day, every pair of skilled hands is direly needed.

Oin does his share helping with the sick and wounded, while Fili and Kili wander the camp, looking like ghosts. Bofur understands it – he shares their horror, but perhaps is hide is thicker, and it was not his own blood that dropped a friend to his death.

For once, fate was kind – which makes Bofur wary, leaves him waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dwarves do not get lucky – history is proof of that. But Bilbo recovers, slowly, but certainly. Four days after his fall he regains consciousness, and beyond Gandalf’s wildest expectations was even coherent.

A fall like that ought to have scrambled anyone’s brains, Oin had commented, and “a little higher and we would have had to pick up several pieces of hobbit from all over the place.” But Bilbo keeps getting better, and at one point he starts to greet his visitors with a smile.

It’s a fake and brittle thing – hardship is written all across the hobbit’s face, now gaunt and haunted – yet he tries. There are nightmares, the healers say, and Bofur who has accompanied Bifur for decades thinks of course there are, and doubts they will ever leave. Bofur even hears rumors that Bilbo admitted to expecting Thorin’s reaction – and if that is true, how desperate must he have been to gamble with his life?

Bofur swallows, and turns to look at the darkening sky. It’s morning, but these days it seems the sun will not come up at all. His first appointment is with a group of men to head toward Laketown and demolish the majorly damaged buildings. Those that are stable they have opened for the children and the old – of the others they salvage what they can to build further shelters.

Some of the men nod at him, a few even call out greetings. The most eye him uncomfortably – he is a dwarf, and dwarves are the reason for this disaster. The help of one does little in this respect. He is glad once they begin their work and forget about the desolation surrounding them.

The spell lasts until midday. Then, a rider approaches in gallop from the camp.

“Gather the weapons!” he cries, and it is a man clad in ill-fitting armor, “Gather all the weapons you can find! An army of orcs and goblins approaches! They’ll be here by nightfall!”

***

This is what the end looks like.

Thorin stands atop the gate and gazes out across the scene of death and desolation. The air is black with smoke, and the air carries the scent of blood and burning flesh, and the screams of the dying.

Numbly he watches as the ground before Erebor is soaked with blood. This was not how he thought to reclaim his kingdom. This is not the glorious return they have dreamt of since the dragon came.

He swallows and the wind tears at his hair.

"Thorin?" Balin asks, quietly, and soft footsteps and ringing weapons betray the rest of the company.

This battle will not spare them. Already the field below is drenched in black - the orcs and goblins number too many, and the refugee camp of Laketown is on fire. Somewhere down there his nephews linger - he prays they live, while the evidence before his eyes is frightening.

He has felt numb for a long time. Ever since the halfling's slight body dropped from his fingers nothing has truly felt real - he has wandered the halls, staring blindly at the gold, its shine suddenly diminished. Wondered what he has done, Kili's and Fili's youthful laughter echoing in his ears. Bilbo's frightened eyes haunting his sleep.

There has only ever been one traitor, and that was himself.

But it is of no matter. The enemies’ numbers are too great - tonight, death awaits them all. But if the gods are gracious, they will let his nephews survive - let them escape and go back to the Blue Mountains and live their lives happy and in peace.

Thorin turns around, and the company looks at him, their faces grim and their weapons sharp in the flickering light.

"No matter what happens tonight," Thorin states, "It was an honor to share this with you. I will fight, for this is my duty, but if any of you longs to eschew this, may Mahal bless your path. If the gods have mercy, tell those in the Blue Mountains that the gold is cursed. Tell Master Baggins I am sorry. Tell my nephews I am sorry."

"We'll stand beside you, we always have," Balin replies, lightly and Dwalin grunts an affirmative. This is not the first time they have walked toward certain death - and it almost feels like an old friend beckoning. "If this is where it ends then we will face it together."

Thorin closes his eyes. "Thank you. I could wish for nor finer companions in this dark hour - and I hope one day you will find it in you to forgive my madness."

Nori snorts. "We were no less enthralled than you.”

“We’ve been on this road together and come this far,” Ori adds, an odd note of confidence under his normally so hesitant voice, “Let’s walk the last part together as well.”

Thorin nods, and has to shut his eyes for a moment. There are no better dwarves he could wish for to share this with him – and he wishes there was a way to save their lives. But may their maker forgive him, may his friends forgive him – he will see this through.

He lifts his sword. “For Erebor!” he shouts, and adds, to himself, “For my people.”

***

With a loud clatter, an elf warrior stumbles into Bilbo's tent, the usual grace of his kin absent from his step. He is bleeding from a gash to his forehead, his face pale and grim and Bilbo pushes himself up, with trembling arms. Ever since the last healer left the tent with a grim face and a sword strapped to his belt, he's been nervous.

Scared, even, listening to the shouting outside.

"What is -?" he begins, but the elf interrupts.

"They'll be here soon," he announces, "Where is your sword?"

"What!" Bilbo exclaims and his heart drops, "Over there, but what is happening? Is the battle going ill?"

The elf stomps over, casts a critical eye on Sting and then tosses it into Bilbo's lap. "The enemy's numbers are too large. There is no chance to win and the King said to try and save your life - if luck is with us, we'll make it to the forest."

And yet Bilbo knows that Mirkwood's border is far, on the other end of the Lake. Abruptly he smells smoke in the air, and can't help the quiver of his lips. "But the dwarves - there was an army from the Iron Hills. Aren't they -?"

"Oh, they are all here and we are all fighting back to back now, but that will not save either of us," the elf proclaims and casts around for a large cloak, while Bilbo's hands tighten around Sting.

He should fight - his friends are out there, dying. And if they die, shouldn't he die with them? His heart hurts too much to consider going home, but -

What help will he be in battle? He never was a fighter, and now, with more broken than hale bones in his body and a leg that will not carry his weight, what can he do?

"Wear this," the elf wraps a large cloak around his shoulders and then, gently, picks Bilbo up on one arm, "Keep your head down."

Bilbo stomach rolls in protest at the movement, and his world blurs - and then a gust of cold air hits his face, and he smells blood and burning flesh, and the world around him is one fire. Blades glitter in the flickering red light, and the howling of wargs fills the air.

A growl nearby, and Bilbo barely sees an orc's twisted features over the fabric, and then the elf moves so quickly and the air is spinning, and he hears metal pierce flesh. The stench of Orc hits his nose, just as a choked noise tells him the elf's blade found his mark.

Then the elf turns, and Bilbo sees the carcass on the ground. The elf tightens the arm around him, and Bilbo's face is pressed into the fabric of his coat. It leaves him blind to the battle, but not deaf, and he hears an arrow whizz by, and then the elves are shouting in their own language, and his head hurts too much to puzzle out more than fragments.

"... Take his horse!" he hears and suddenly the elf starts running and Bilbo wants to tell him to stop, because his ribs are on fire and he can't breathe. All that escapes from his lips are choked gasps, not audible over the din of battle.

And then he's tossed, and for a moment he feels like falling.

Then he is caught, and the impact makes the world go black.

The blackness does not linger, a deep burning in his chest and leg pulls him back, and he's being bounced relentlessly. His mind is fuzzy, and somebody is holding him upright, though it makes him feel sick, and he hurts.

Suddenly they veer sideways, but it’s not enough. The first arrow flies by close enough for Bilbo to feel it, but the second hits the rider with a dull thud that even Bilbo feels. There is a choked noise, and the arm holding him grows lax –

And then they are falling.

He hits the ground rolling. Pain explodes in his leg, and his vision goes white. Something hard and sharp collides with his chest, there is dirt under his fingers and a wet spot on his clothes. The taste of copper on his lips, and he coughs, fumbling blindly for Sting. Around him, madness reigns.

Arrows soar overhead, he can’t tell if the scream around him stem from friend or enemy, and wargs and horses both threaten to trample him. But the fatal blow does not comes, and Bilbo blinks the dust from his eyes to see blood-sprinkled ground before him, and an arm clutching an axe not too far away. It’s been torn off – the jagged edges betray this.

His stomach twists, but there is nothing in it to bring up. Instead, with cold-sweat covering his forehead, he looks up, only to grow dizzy. His heart is pounding too fast, the rhythm echoing in his head –

A growl makes him look up, though the abrupt movement makes his vision blur. There is an Orc staring down at him, its dull blade stained red, and it’s features twisted in unholy glee.

Bilbo’s heart stops. Blindly, he fumbles for Sting, pulls it from its sheath and brings it before him. The Orc only grunts in amusement, takes a step forward and Bilbo scrambles to get away. But he can’t get up, and every movement sets of white fire in his leg.

He bites on his lip, and his vision clears – in time to see the Orc raise its blade overhead –

And with roar Thorin Oakenshield throws himself before Bilbo and servers the orcs head with a might swing of his sword. The king whirls around to dispatch two more orcs with smooth, powerful movements – Orcrist cutting through flesh and bone as if it was paper, and Bilbo gasps.

Finally, Thorin turns.

And when their eyes meet, Bilbo realizes that the madness has left Thorin.

“Master Baggins,” the King under the Mountain says and kneels down before him, “Are you hurt?”

For a moment, Bilbo is unable to comprehend. The madness is gone, and that is incredible, and that makes him happy – and the smell of death lingers in the air, and what is Thorin saying?

Then a hand reaches for him, grasps his shoulders, and Bilbo, belatedly, flinches. For a moment he remembers the same hand dangling him in the empty air, an icy breeze tearing at his clothes –

“Forgive me,” Thorin utters, and loosens his grip but does not retract his hand, “Bilbo. Why are you here? Why aren’t you far away? This battle is no place for you! Why didn’t Gandalf see to it?”

Bilbo trembles and can’t seem to stop it. But he blinks, and nods over to the fallen rider. “They… They tried,” he stutters, and his throat burns. He doubles over coughing, wet and warm liquid on his lips again, and then it’s only Thorin holding him upright.

Thorin curses under his breath. “You can’t stay here,” the King announces, and Bilbo wants to laugh – he can’t stand, how ever should he escape?

There is a contemplative frown on Thorin face as he gazes over the field. Between fire and smoke little is visible, but it is clear that no safe haven is to be found.

“Erebor,” Thorin says, and Bilbo finds himself lifted into the air again. But this time the hands are gentle, and the hold is protective, and he hears Thorin shouting for Dwalin and Gloin, and to clear a path, and there is a hand on his shoulder, and he thinks somebody is calling his name –

But the world fades out.

*** 

Dwalin first thinks Thorin is holding a child. Wrapped in a green cloak, the body Thorin clutches against his chest is small, and Dwalin turns and beheads two goblins sneaking their way.

Gloin has Thorin’s back covered, so he’ll be opening the road. As he turns, Thorin nods toward the mountain. Erebor, then, to save the one –

A gust of wind pulls the cloak down enough to reveal blond curls, and Dwalin swears. “He’s alive?!”

Thorin gives a nod. “Badly hurt, though.”

And that is not difficult to imagine, not when Dwalin stood there to watch their hobbit fall. It had happened so fast, there hadn’t even been a chance for him to move, and then it had already been too late. He’d seen the elves and men gather, see Gandalf set to work – and then Thorin had turned on his heel, strode away, his face ashen.

He hadn’t meant to let Bilbo fall, then, and that – among many other reasons – makes Dwalin glad their burglar is alive. Truly, he had expected the slight thing to die at that fall, but he is happy he was wrong.

And with a turn Dwalin dispatches an orc, and then three more, with a grim smile on his features. This time, there will be no accidents. Not while his axes are sharp and in his hand and his companions need defending.

*** 

It’s a miracle they make it to the mountain, and Thorin’s leg is throbbing from a cut. There is cold sweat on his back, gasping for breath and clutching Bilbo to his chest. The hobbit has not stirred, not even when one orc managed to slip past their guard and only Thorin ducking away saved them from worse.

Dwalin’s axes drip with black blood, and blood runs from his face from where a stray blade caught his ear. He turns to look back down, where the battle still rages under a veil of smoke and darkness.

“Go,” Thorin tells him and Gloin, and when they hesitate, he repeats it, “Go! Your brothers are down there!”

Gloin draws in a sharp breath and turns on his heel. Dwalin hesitates for a short moment. “I have a brother here, too,” he says sotto voce, “Maybe even two. Will you be alright?”

“I’ll see our hobbit settled as safe as can be,” Thorin replies, “Then I’ll rejoin you. My fate is with my kin, no matter how dark the hour.”

Dwalin manages a quirk of his lips, inclines his head and says “Aye”. They both know how this will end.

And with that Dwalin, too, goes to rejoin the madness.

Thorin takes a deep breath. If they do not meet again, he hopes to rejoin his companions in the Halls of Mandos. It is a matter of hours, now. But before, he has another duty to fulfill.

He directs his steps to the small guard room they had set up camp in before. It’s warm, and there are spare cloaks and blankets. The air is biting, and if Bilbo is to last the night, he will have to be kept warm.

Bilbo weighs close to nothing, and his unresponsiveness is scaring Thorin. He is so used to the hobbit fussing, protesting – being lively, and perhaps that has blinded him. But he had his wake-up call the moment that body fell from his fingers.

Gently, Thorin settles him down and covers him in their remaining blankets. He can tell from the bandages he spies under Bilbo’s clothes that the injuries from the fall were extensive. And he can only pray the interlude on the battlefield has not worsened his condition.

But there is blood on Bilbo’s lips, and Thorin knows that the fates are often cruel.

He rests a hand against Bilbo’s cheek, a small sound falls from the hobbit’s lips, and he turns into the warmth. It’s such a trusting gesture in spite of all Thorin has done to him, that his heart breaks.

“Bilbo,” he whispers, though he has no right to use his name.

The hobbit mumbles something, but makes no attempt to turn from Thorin’s hand. The King exhales quietly – this moment he will take for himself. He will pay for his crimes later.

“It’s quite alright,” he tells the hobbit, and if his voice catches – well, who is there to hear it?

“…longer…” Bilbo mumbles, and then his eyes open a little.

Thorin holds his breath, disbelieving. But Bilbo does not flinch, only blinks sleepily. “Hmm?” ,he hums, “Must we leave?”

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin replies, “You can sleep a little longer. It’s quite alright.”

“I thought there was a fight,” the hobbit says, his words slurred. His eyes keep falling shut, and Thorin bites down on his lip. His fingers tremble, but Bilbo doesn’t notice.

“You … don’t worry about it,” Thorin tells him, and he feels as if he is choking on his words, “Just rest.”

Bilbo closes his eyes and relaxes. Thorin closes his eyes. “And may whatever is good in this world spare you. I have wronged you greatly, Bilbo Baggins, and would that I could make it right. But that is a chance I neither deserve nor will be granted.”

He flinches, when unexpectedly, a small hand settles atop his large one. When he looks down he finds Bilbo’s brow cinched.

“… Thorin…” he hears, but Bilbo’s voice is barely above a whisper, “… don’t fret… sleep.”

“I will, Master Baggins. … Bilbo. Soon.” And with that he squeezes that small hand in return. It’s scratched up and the skin bears calluses. A lot of the soft flesh is gone, and bones and lean muscles remain.

Another change he has caused – and for what? For throwing Bilbo off of the gate? For almost killing the one who tried to save him? What had Gandalf been thinking when he had asked the hobbit to come along? What had he been thinking to allow it? He’d seen how untouched Bilbo had been by the darkness of their world, and he’d derided him for it – instead of realizing that the peaceful ways of the Shire were what he had wanted for his own people all along.

The hand in his relaxes, and Bilbo’s breathing evens out.

“Sleep well,” Thorin whispers and carefully lays Bilbo’s hand back down, “Sleep well.”

He wants to say that once morning comes things will be alright. But he knows better – knows the devastation that awaits outside. Whatever morning may bring – he prays it will come fast.

With a deep breath he draws his sword.

It is time to face his fate.

***

Victory is granted, though Thorin does not live to see it. Dwalin saw him slay Azog, but was not quick enough to stop the blow that pierced Thorin’s stomach. And so, while the battle raged around them, he sat with his King. His friend.

Listened to him breathe apologies, plead his forgiveness and pray for his nephews survival. Nephews whose bodies Balin now is covering with a sheet, their faces wiped clean of dust and dirt. They were too young –

But this realization comes too late. Dwalin sighs and turns to look at the other survivors. They are a sad group, their faces stained with grime and blood. Gandalf sits, bowed over, while Thranduil and his folk are retrieving their own dead.

And if they aid man or dwarf to unbury their fallen kin – or accept a helping hand on their way – nobody comments. Death is the ultimate equalizer, turning old grudges into insubstantial fairytales.

“Bilbo!” somebody exclaims, and Dwalin glances up to see Bofur run to where Gloin returns from the mountain, a body held in his arms. Ori limbs after Bofur, leaning heavily on Nori all the way.

From the corner of his eye, Dwalin sees Gandalf straighten and Balin wearily climb to his feet. Even some dwarves that have come from the Iron Hills turn.

“Is he…?” Dori asks, in a flat tone. They have all seen so much death during the last night – Bilbo would be but one more name to add to that devastating list of lives they should never even have risked.

“Alive,” Gloin tells them with a frown, “Not good, but alive.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Gandalf mutters and climbs to his feet, “I had thought …” He trails off, and hurries over.

Dwalin is content to sit there. His legs throb, and he can’t find it within himself to stand. He is glad that Bilbo lives – Thorin would have been glad for it, too. It was only but a few hours ago that he covered Thorin’s back as the king clutched the burglar to his chest like his most precious treasure –

And Dwalin does not ruminate on the could-have-beens. He has seen too many lives lost to be able to grieve for all that has not come to pass. For all the opportunities lost – but he would have wished for Thorin to be happy.

When Oin pokes his head out of a tent nearby, Dwalin nods into the direction of the group. “Our burglar survives.”

***

It takes Bilbo days to wake up.

Sometimes he is in a dim state of consciousness, hearing people talk, but he does not know who is talking or where he is. Sometimes he hears the voices of people long gone – at other times he thinks he is back in his home, and it is his father shaking him awake.

Then he dreams of fire and death. Of trolls and caves. Mountains and rivers, eagles and bears. It is all disjointed, and sometimes he feels fire licking his skin, hands on his throat. Hears wind howling in his ears, and then he is falling, falling –

It’s too hot, and he remembers a dragon, but there are no dragons in the Shire. If there are any left in Middle Earth, they would never come there, so why would he remember a dragon? Its heat, its claws, its menacing voice?

Somebody pours a foul smelling brew down his throat, and weren’t they at Laketown? Have they lingered there for so long? Durin’s day must have passed by now – Thorin is going to be –

Angry.

And Bilbo’s head clears.

Yes, Thorin had been angry. Beyond furious – he swallows, and weakly reaches to rub at his throat. He remembers being shaken, clinging to Thorin’s arm, the unforgiving grip of the King on his coat and scarf –

“Bilbo?” a voice to his left asks, and Bilbo flinches. Pain explodes in his ribs at the abrupt movement, and a hand settles on his shoulder.

“Laddie, are you awake?”

He blinks, fighting back the blackness threatening to swallow his vision. The hand is broad, sturdy, but too small for a human and too callused for a hobbit. To his surprise he finds Dwalin watching him with a frown.

“I’ll fetch Gandalf and Oin, then,” Dwalin rumbles, “They’ll be glad to see you awake.”

Bilbo manages to catch his sleeve and tugs at it. “Wait…” he rasps, finding his throat dry and uncooperative.

Dwalin is quick to hand him a water skin, and even drinking leaves Bilbo so exhausted he could just pass out again. But his throat feels better, and he is too confused to wait for answers. “What happened?”

He has blurry memories of another tent – but was that real or a dream? And a battle, but with all the fever dreams he has seen, he cannot tell what was true and what not.

Dwalin sighs. “After you fell – there was a large battle. A host of orcs and goblin came down from the mountains, led by Azog.”

He turns to look at Bilbo, sees the anxiety written across his too-pale face and at last his expression softens. “It was good you forced Thorin’s hand – otherwise none of us would have survived. It was a close thing, anyhow.”

Bilbo blinks. Then perhaps his memories are real? “Then…?” the hobbit mutters, and Dwalin does not know what he is asking. But he knows what Thorin would have wanted him to know.

“Thorin realized what you were doing. He … apologized. Or tried to, anyway. You weren’t conscious, or at least not fully there.”

“He … he did?” Bilbo asks, disbelief creeping up his spine.

“Aye,” Dwalin replies, “And for what it is worth, I don’t think he intended to drop you from the gate, either.”

For a long moment, Bilbo is silent, turning something over in his head. Then tilts his head. “I don’t think he did, either – when I fell, there was a moment when I think he just looked surprised.”

“We all were,” Dwalin snorts.

“How is he?” Bilbo asks, “And the others? Did anybody get hurt? Did you manage to settle things with Bard and Thranduil? I asked Gandalf to safeguard the Arkenstone in case somebody tried to use it in an dishonest trick or anything, but – “

Seeing Dwalin’s expression, Bilbo trails off. “Are they…?” he whispers.

Dwalin shakes his head.

“They aren’t…” Bilbo gasps, “Tell me they aren’t dead?!”

His voice jumps, and Dwalin closes his eyes. “Thorin, Fili and Kili fell in battle. The rest of the company survives.”

Bilbo feels the ground drop away. How can those three – why them? Why at this point? Is there no justice in this world? Thorin had just reclaimed Erebor, and Fili and Kili been so young. Barely adults – what force would see young lives wasted so cruelly?

He doesn’t even feel the burn in his eyes or the wetness on his cheeks. Doesn’t hear Dwalin mumble something about getting Gandalf and leave the tent. His head is in uproar – so many things were left unsaid between them, how could Thorin just be gone?

How could –

There is a faint memory tugging on his mind. Something – warm. Strong hands holding him. Blue eyes fixed on him in concern, lifting him; a deep voice telling him it’s all right.

But that cannot have happened.

***

Yet, as Bilbo heals, he begins to piece the picture together. And it leaves him breathless from the pain in his heart.

After he fell, Gandalf tells him, it took the combined efforts of Thranduil, Gandalf, Oin and an assortment of healers to save his life. Kili, Fili and Bofur stayed by his side through those fevered days. Saying that, Bofur turns to glance outside, a wistful expression on his face.

“They were worried for you,” he says, “We all were. And in battle, we were all so afraid when we saw your tent go up in flames – we’d have run over, but there were too many, and we couldn’t just leave the others.”

From him and Ori Bilbo learns that the company reunited on the battlefield.

“We were crying,” Ori admits with a self-conscious shrug, “Not that any will admit that, now. But I think even Dwalin was wiping his eyes when Thorin hugged Fili and Kili and apologized.”

So they were reunited before the end, Bilbo thinks, and relief spreads through his chest. They had a moment to speak to each other without madness clouding their minds – a moment, no matter how short.

“Next we know everyone’s somewhere else, and it’s chaos,” Nori tells him, later, “Even the elves lost sight of their strategy. You had to be glad if there was anybody friendly behind your back. Kili and Fili did team up with those two elves – it’s a pity only the blond one survived. They made for a fierce team.”

And that is how Bilbo learns just how close Thranduil came to losing his only son. It makes him watch the King with concern, and a newfound understanding for the deep lines now visible on his face.

“She was but a child,” he hears him mutter, once, when they are seeing the red-haired captain to her last rest. It is an odd day, cold but clear, and for once all three races stand united.

“She shouldn’t have been there,” Thranduil adds, “None of them should have.”

Where Thranduil presides over the funerals of his own, Balin conducts the one for the line of Durin on another sunny winter day. Dain stands aside, still not wearing the crown many are all but pushing onto him.

“He’s waiting for a reply from Thorin’s sister,” Gloin tells Bilbo during that night, when they are all well into their cups, watery as the brew may be, “He’d rather she take up the crown, but nobody thinks she will even come here.”

“What about Balin and Dwalin? Aren’t they… cousins or something?” Bilbo asks.

“Yeah,” Gloin replies, “But Dwalin doesn’t want anything to do with ruling, and I think Balin doesn’t really want a crown either. Also, I think, Dain would be glad to have your approval as well.”

“Mine?!” Bilbo coughs as some liquid goes down wrong.

Gloin claps his back rather carefully – everybody lately has all but treated Bilbo as if he would break at the slightest contact. He doesn’t like admitting it, but it’s helpful when even Gloin’s clap leaves his ribcage aching.

“Yours, yes. You were a member of the company, and quite dear to Thorin, so your opinion is of importance,” Gloin tells him.

“But I…” Bilbo stutters.

“Well, you had a good motive and ended up more or less saving our lives, didn’t you? And Thorin did try to make up for it when he found you on the battlefield.”

That is news to Bilbo, so he sits up a little straighter. “He did what?”

“Ah, you were pretty out of it at that time,” Gloin replies, “The orcs had overrun the Laketown camp, and some elf had tried to get you out. Hadn’t gotten far, the poor sod, but then Thorin got there and he carried you back up to Erebor.”

Bilbo recalls those blurry memories of screams, warmth and a deep voice telling him to sleep a little longer. Maybe those weren’t fever-induced hallucinations? Maybe Thorin did –

“He was rather determined to make sure you live through the night,” Gloin adds with a small hiccup, “Would’ve been happy to know it worked, too.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo stutters, dumbfounded, “I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me.”

And he is glad it worked. But couldn’t Thorin have put some thought into his own survival as well?

The road back home, eventually, is long and lonely. For days Bilbo looks back at his memories, wondering at the emptiness in his heart. Is victory supposed to feel like this? Their quest was successful, and yet Bilbo cannot smile without pain. The price paid for victory was too high – and yet Bilbo knows that in the long run, that, when thinking of homes and people and the future of Middle Earth, it was worth it.

Like the memories of a bright blue sky on days of parting, his ribs continue to ache and he retains a slight limp. It does not bother him, but his neighbors notice. And when Bilbo even alludes to having seen battle, he can see in their faces that they do not understand.

They will never.

And when he calls Frodo for dinner and the boy comes bouncing – his smile wide despite the tragedy he has known – he thinks that this, perhaps, is not quite so bad a thing.

_Fin_


	26. In Mirkwood's Dungeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin and Bilbo grow closer while the dwarves are imprisoned in Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for HKM prompt --> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22600427#t22600427
> 
> For once, no warnings. Some h/c, some fluff, some humor. And mostly set in book!verse, though I adopted the "dwarves all have their individual cells" version from the movie.

There is not much to do in the dungeons of Mirkwood. Balin’s attempt to convince Thranduil to let them go has failed, and Dwalin does not think his brother will succeed the next time, either. Thorin is missing, but even in a situation this bleak Dwalin does not want to think his old friend dead yet.

They have been separated in battle before, and the spiders would never have been a match for a fully awake Thorin Oakenshield. So perhaps he managed to give the elves the slip and is continuing on toward Erebor with their missing burglar.

Anything else does not bear thinking about, so Dwalin closes his eyes and tries to sleep. For once his stomach is not cramping around empty air, and spider venom still runs through his veins. The elves will not let them go, but with them watching, Dwalin is content to let himself relax for once.

He doesn’t know how long he dozes.

When he comes to, the light outside his cell has not changed, but it has grown quiet. Footsteps and voices have faded, and the air holds a cooler breeze. He wonders what woke him, glances around – and then catches sight of a cowering form next to the door of his cell.

“Dwalin,” a familiar voice hisses, “Dwalin, wake up!”

“Burglar,” Dwalin almost exclaims, but remembers at the last moment to lower his voice, “What are you doing here?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I followed you,” he whispers in reply, “Are you alright?”

He certainly looks as if he had crawled through the forest. Remains of the spiders’ nets and leaves cling to Bilbo’s clothes, the red dinner jacket sport some large, new tears. A deep cut on Bilbo’s cheek, a bruise on his temple.

The elves had given their prisoners water and cloths to clean themselves, as well as food to still their hunger. “Quite so, except for this,” Dwalin tells Bilbo, and gives the unmoving bars of his cell a good tug. They don’t budge in the slightest.

“Hmm,” Bilbo hums, unhappily eyeing the barrier, “The others?”

“As far as I know they’re fine,” Dwalin says, “Kept making a racket and driving the guards insane. Balin tried to convince that pointy-eared weed eater to let us go, but that King’s got nothing but shrubbery for a head, so that’s not going anywhere. ”

Bilbo’s lips twitch at the description. “That’s not good,” he murmurs, “I kept trying to rouse the others, but they’ve all curled up in the back of their cells and I don’t dare to shout to wake them.”

That explains why Bilbo sought him out, Dwalin thinks, and then straightens. “Did you find Thorin?”

Bilbo blinks. “I haven’t seen him. Isn’t he with you?”

Dwalin shakes his head, telling himself not to give into that sinking feeling in hic chest. “He wasn’t with us when the elves caught us.”

“But then he is…” Bilbo pales, and casts a wide-eyed glance up toward the exit. And that cursed forest.

“He can take care of himself,” Dwalin grunts, and moves forward to get Bilbo’s attention again. He wants to believe his own words, wishes he could cast aside the remaining grain of doubt in his heart, but he can’t let Bilbo know. Their burglar would not survive in there, not alone anyway, and as long as Bilbo is here, he may be able to free them yet.

“You need to get us out,” Dwalin hisses.

The hobbit flinches, but then visibly collects himself. His eyes are wide and afraid, his entire appearance worn and exhausted, and Dwalin wishes there was somebody else he could appoint to the task. But their inexperienced burglar – and Dwalin does respect his courage – is their only choice.

“How?” Bilbo asks in a low voice, “Do you have a plan?”

Dwalin grinds his teeth and shakes his head. “No. Ask Balin or Nori when they wake up – they are better at that.”

“Can’t you… tear out the bars or something?” Bilbo asks, eyeing the metal. The bars do look deceptively thin, but they are tightly woven and strong. Dwalin has tried, as have Gloin, Dori and all the others before fatigue overcame them.

“Not a chance,” Dwalin replies, and then presses his hand against the bars, “I can’t even fit my hand through those blasted holes.”

“Alright,” Bilbo mutters, even though his voice betrays how desolate he feels, “Alright. I’ll go and find Balin and Nori.”

He sounds breathless. And Dwalin won’t blame him for being nervous – organizing a breakout is a daunting task, and Bilbo is only a quite small hobbit after all.

***

Bilbo does not come back during the night, and if he speaks to Balin or Nori, he is exceptionally silent. Dwalin can’t hear a thing, and eventually he drifts off again. Morning comes, but it is only announced through the chatter echoing down from the upper levels of Mirkwood’s palace.

Food and drink are brought and pushed in through a small hatch on the door, though not a work is spoken. Sometimes fragments of conversation from the other cells drift up to where Dwalin is incarcerated – but he does not feel like shouting back to join the conversation, and eventually it dies down.

Neither his brother nor anybody else is summoned to see Thranduil that day, and Dwalin resumes napping. Hopefully their burglar will return tonight with a plan. So Dwalin eats the bread provided in order to regain his strength – it may be needed sooner rather than later.

***

“Bilbo!” Kili’s exclamation rouses Dwalin. He presses his face against the bars, but the light outside is too dim to see far, “How do we get –“

“Shhh,” Dori and Bofur hiss simultaneously, just as Gloin shouts: “Did you find where they took our weapons?”

“Did you find a way out?” Ori asks, softer, but still quite audible. And Fili shouts “Did you find Thorin?” loudly enough for his voice to echo.

“Stop the racket!” Balin calls, but it is too late.

“Have you seen my trumpet?”

“Do you know where Thorin went?”

“Have you explored the place yet? What’s that pointy-eared goblin up to?”

“What’s the plan? When do we leave?”

“How are you going to get us out?”

Dwalin takes a deep breath to shout for silence, but running footsteps stop him. Four elven guards descend from above, their swords drawn – and Dwalin suddenly fears for their burglar.

“What is this noise about?” one asks, “What were you doing?”

He’s out of Dwalin’s sight, but the company has fallen silent. Dwalin purses his lips – he won’t admit it out loud, but not being able to see what is happening leaves him exceedingly uncomfortable. He can’t hear fighting, doesn’t hear screaming – did they discover Bilbo? Did the hobbit get away in time?

“Merely a disagreement,” he hears his brother say and lets go of a breath he had not known he was holding. Trust Balin to find an explanation.

The elf snorts. “Then I suggest you be a bit quieter about your disagreements in the future, dwarf.”

“We would,” Bofur pipes up, indecently cheerful, “But you see, you all locked us up singly, so we kind of have to speak a little louder.”

The leader of the elven guard is in no mood for arguments. “You will be silent or you will be without food.”

Dwalin growls. Not even dwarves starve their prisoners, especially not when starvation is written plainly across their faces. And after weeks or stumbling through Mirkwood without food or water, they all are emaciated.

“Very well,” the elf says, and then turns on his heel to stalk off. He is followed by his three companions, but even when they are out of sight, conversation does not resume. Their burglar seems to have vanished into thin air – at least, until Dwalin hears a small sigh and suddenly finds a hobbit leaning against the bars of his cell.

“Burglar,” he exclaims in surprise, “When did you get here?”

Bilbo turns to face him, and he looks terribly pale and tired. “I hid here after they came down. Managed to sneak past them down below.”

He shivers and pulls his worn coat closer around his shoulders. Dwalin nods, though it is not like him to not notice somebody hiding nearby. Even somebody as tiny as their burglar.

“Any news?” he asks, while still mulling over this development.

Bilbo shakes his head. “Nothing. Balin and Nori don’t have an idea either, this place is a maze and –“

He breaks off, and Dwalin glances up in time to catch Bilbo biting down on his lip in frustration. “Take your time, then,” Dwalin tells him, “Learn the place. Find its weakness, all places have at least one – and don’t let them find you.”

With a shaky breath, Bilbo nods and then hurries off. Dwalin stares after him, contemplating. Something seemed off about their burglar, though he can’t quite pinpoint it. His sudden appearance might have been due to Dwalin’s own distraction, and his frustration is understandable, too.

But something still felt wrong.

***

Bilbo does not show up the next night or the night after that. Dwalin grows worried, but reassures himself that they would know if Bilbo had been caught. Thranduil is not above gloating – and that is what he tells Ori and Kili, when they are anxiously wondering what befell their smallest companion.

He doesn’t dare to raise the idea that something else could have happened. An accident, a fall – like them, Bilbo is weakened from the ordeal in Mirkwood, and it would not take much for a hobbit to fall off one of the staircases and disappear forever into the depths of the palace.

Dwalin tries to come up with a plan of action in case Bilbo has indeed disappeared for good, but his mind draws up a blank. The bars pose an unsurmountable obstacle, and he does not have the wits or skills needed to talk his way out of a situation.

Balin and Nori, it seems, are equally stuck.

During the day, Dwalin hears his brother attempt to talk to the guards. But they are silent, do neither reply nor speak – and thus, all these attempts are in vain. And in the late hours, when all has gone silent, and Dwalin can only listen to Kili wonder what happened to Thorin and Fili’s weakening assurances that their uncle is fine, despair begins to blossom in his heart.

Will they truly rot in here?

Is this their fate?

Not a dragon, not an orc? Not fire, not war – but a forgotten prison cell in a cursed forest?

“Dwalin,” somebody gasps, and Dwalin turns around to see Bilbo Baggins suddenly becoming visible before his cell, “Dwalin,” the hobbit repeats, and staggers – Dwalin surges to his feet, fearing the worst, but there is a strange kind of elation to the hobbit’s voice.

“Everybody!” Bilbo calls out abruptly, and loudly, and has he taken leave of his senses? “Thorin lives!”

A loud cheer goes up, as twelve dwarves jump their feet and begin shouting in joy. “Alive! Alive! Alive!” it echoes around the dungeon, and Dwalin is certain the guards will come running in moments, but he can’t deny the relief in his heart.

“He’s here, too,” Bilbo says, just loud enough for Dwalin to hear over the noise, “He’s being kept on one of the lower levels. Took me ages to find the way there…”

A faint smile is on his face, and it makes it all the more obvious how thin he has become. Gone are the round cheeks and the plump throat, replaced by angular bones and for a split second wonders if Bilbo is eating –

“You need to hide!” He tells him, because over the din the guards will be inaudible, and Bilbo can’t be caught, not now, not when he is their only hope of getting out. The hobbit catches himself, nods, and Dwalin just catches sight of something gold before their burglar turns invisible.

A low thud against the bars of his cell informs him that Bilbo hasn’t left. Dwalin has a spare second to wonder at this sorcery – and has their burglar always been capable of becoming invisible – before the guards descend.

“What is this about?!” the head guard shouts, exasperation clear as he gazes through the dungeon. Now, all the dwarves are silent, but there is tension in the air, and some avert their faces for they can’t conceal their cheer.

Dwalin purses his lips. No matter how good the news, they aren’t out of the dungeon yet.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the guard repeats, glancing back and forth between the prisoners, “Tell me or else!”

This isn’t good. Thranduil, cold-blooded bastard he is, will not stoop to torture. But that doesn’t mean accidents won’t happen in his dungeon. And old beings like him know that there are other ways of causing damage that cut deeper than daggers ever could.

“Tell me!”

“Please, there is no need to be so upset, Master Elf,” Balin chimes up. His voice is even, but the fact that he hasn’t spoken until now implies he hasn’t quite found an excuse yet. Dwalin automatically reaches for an axe that isn’t there – and instead catches sight of an unusual shadow on the floor of his cell.

Of course, their burglar is hiding just outside here, and can’t move in the absolute silence. Dwalin’s heart makes a small leap, but the elves have not yet noted anything unusual – and for a moment he’s irrationally grateful that his cell is out of the way. Two shuffling steps plant him firmly across Bilbo’s shadow, and he hopes that this will be enough.

They can’t afford to have their burglar captured, after all.

“We were merely …”

“Having a celebration!” Bofur exclaims happily.

“A celebration?” the head guard asks, his face twisted in a grimace, while Dwalin rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you see, Oin has read the portents, and they said Bombur’s wife – you know my cousin Bombur over there – well, according to the portents she’s had a second child, and we don’t know if it’s a lad or a lass, but anyway, it’s still a good reason to celebrate,” Bofur explains cheerfully.

The head guard looks about as unconvinced as Dwalin feels.

“In the middle of the night?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” Bofur replies, “I mean, I don’t know about elves, but little dwarves, well they pop out when they want to, no matter if it’s day or night. Are little elves only born during the day?”

“They grow on trees, did you forget that?” Gloin shouts across the space, and as the company fails to muffle the ensuing laughter, Dwalin wonders whose head will be loped off first.

The head guard, however, shows remarkable restraint. He turns up his nose with a sniff and announces “As a punishment, you will only be given two meals tomorrow. Now be silent.”

And the guards stalk off with an air of offended dignity to them. No less than they deserve, Dwalin thinks. He’ll probably mourn the missing meal tomorrow, but it’s still nice to get one up over the pointy-eared weed-eaters and their better-than-thou attitude.

Only when the echo of their footsteps has faded he dares to turn his attention back to the shadow that shouldn’t be there.

“Burglar,” he whispers.

There is a rustle of clothes and Bilbo reappears, huddled in a corner on the other side of the bars. He looks eerily pale and exhausted, and Dwalin sharply recalls that the elves did provide them with medical aid, but Bilbo received none.

“Oi, burglar,” he says a little louder, “Are you alright?”

Bilbo blinks and turns to look at him – the gesture is slower than it should be, and Dwalin feels uneasy. Then their hobbit forces a tired smile and shrugs. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Dwalin echoes, “Did you get injured?”

“No, no,” Bilbo shakes his head, “Just some small scratches, nothing serious.”

“And you are taking care of them? Even a small scratch can be fatal if it gets infected.” Dwalin wishes he could reach through the bars and actually examine their burglar. He doesn’t like Bilbo’s pallor, or the fact that he hasn’t made any attempt at getting up.

“They’re healing quite alright,” Bilbo says, but it does not sound convincing, “I’m just tired, honestly.”

Tired, and very, very thin, Dwalin thinks as he studies their burglar’s face. While he can feel the strength returning to his own body, Bilbo doesn’t look any better than he did in Mirkwood. Rather, he is looking even more worn down.

“Then you need to get more sleep,” Dwalin replies sharply, “If you’re tired and slip up, you’ll get yourself caught.”

“I know that,” Bilbo returns, “I’m not going to let that happen! I’m careful, but it’s not as if I could just lie down somewhere and sleep as long as I want to, is it? There’s always elves coming and going, and open spaces everywhere and …”

He trails off and shakes his head miserably. Dwalin frowns – he’d thought it would be easy for Bilbo to find a corner to curl up in, but it’s right – there are many open spaces in Mirkwood, and while hiding Bilbo can’t really allow the elves to even suspect his presence.

“Sleep here then,” he says.

“What?”

“Sleep here. I’ll wake you once the guards come by,” he tells Bilbo.

The hobbit purses his lips. Dwalin knows he has not done much in the past to win their burglar’s trust, but he hopes it will be granted in this. Now that he understands the problem, he can see just how badly Bilbo needs some hours of undisturbed rest.

He isn’t certain whether it’s actual trust or just exhaustion winning out, but Bilbo nods. “Alright.” He shifts against the wall, curling up on his side, making himself small. Dwalin could lift him on one arm like this. It doesn’t look right, he thinks, even he has a sort of makeshift cot in his cell with a sheet passing for a blanket. Their burglar has to make do with his torn coat.

“Give me your hand,” he says after a moment, and Bilbo’s eyes open in confusion, “So that I have a way of waking you up without making noise.”

Testament to Bilbo’s fatigue, the hobbit says nothing and just pushes his hand through the small space between the lowest bar and the ground. The sleeve catches on the bar, but Bilbo doesn’t realize.

Dwalin suppresses a violent curse when the revealed arm is barely more than bone. When did their burglar grow so thin? Granted, they’d all been starving in Mirkwood, but this, this almost skeletal look – nobody else has been affected so drastically.

With pursed lips he takes hold of the offered hand, enveloping it gently in his own. Bilbo's hand is frighteningly small and fragile - Dwalin could crush it if he gripped if too tightly.

"Burglar," he whispers, and tries his best to keep the growl from his voice, "When was the last time you ate?"

"Don't know," Bilbo mumbles without opening his eyes, "There's always somebody in the kitchen and the elves hardly leave any food lying around..."

Dwalin grinds his teeth. "Tomorrow night," he orders, "You come here. We'll save you some food."

***

There is a flaw in his plan, Dwalin realizes the next day. He does not know how to communicate to the others to save food for Bilbo - and he doesn't dare shouting it out. The elves might grow suspicious. As he can't see the others, so Iglishmek is not helpful, either.

Bilbo left the moment the chatter grew louder, with a quiet "thank you" and a smile. Dwalin wishes him luck - their burglar will need it. The night of undisturbed rest has visibly helped him, but he still looks as if the wind could blow him over.

So Dwalin sets aside the majority of his own bread, though his stomach grumbles unhappily at his decision. Then he closes his eyes, mulling over his problem.

Until a solution presents itself.

Two elven guards come down, and then leave with Kili, much to Fili's horror. Balin is trying his hardest to get everybody to calm down, lest they let their purpose (or the presence of their burglar) slip and Dwalin bites his lip.

Kili. He likes the lad, but Kili's not really prepared to face a skilled interrogator like Thranduil. Whose millennia of experience do give him a somewhat unfair advantage.

And Dwalin isn't so certain if Kili's signed "don't elope" is making it any better. The boy has never been particularly skilled at Iglishmek, but this request is rather puzzling. Dwalin hopes Kili was merely trying to express that he wouldn't betray them to Thranduil - but then again, maybe if they let Kili try to converse in Sindarin (he has been taught, he's a prince after all) he might just convince Thranduil they intend to become pirates.

So it's hoping against probability, but when Kili is led back, Dwalin signs to him to safe food for their burglar. Kili signs back that there is an elk dancing above them.

Dwalin blinks. He wasn't even aware Iglishmek could express that phrase.

"Kili!" Fili exclaims, "Are you alright? Did they do anything to you?"

The rest of the company joins in, and eventually the guards leave them to their conversation. Most of the chatter centers on Kili and what Thranduil asked him. More subtly, Balin and Nori inquire after his answers, without betraying their true purpose to anybody that might be listening in.

Luck is on their side, for once, and Kili succeeded not only in keeping their true purpose secret, but also in driving Thranduil to distraction. The lad is quite proud of that feat, and Dwalin leans back against the wall of his cell with a small, relieved sigh.

"And also," Kili raises his voice, "Dwalin said to steal food."

"Dwalin?" Gloin echoes in the descending silence, "He said what?"

"Why would he do that?" Fili wonders.

"Perhaps the elves aren't feeding him," Ori suggests.

"Master Dwalin," Dori calls out, "Is that true? Are the elves not feeding you?"

Dwalin groans and leans against the wall. Trust Kili to get even the simplest of sentences wrong. Why couldn't have Thranduil chosen to interrogate Ori? His Iglishmek is flawless, and he's certainly learning the art of deflection from Balin.

(Then again, it could have been Fili. Last time Dwalin saw him using Iglishmek, it was a string of rather violent curses).

"Dwalin?" Balin calls.

And instincts ingrained from earliest childhood render Dwalin unable to not answer his brother. "No, they feed me. Kili, show them what I signed."

There is a moment of silence, then Fili exclaims, "What? The elves are calling us thieves?”

Balin chuckles, "I don't think so. I believe what my brother said was more along the lines of this."

And apparently Balin gestures correctly, because the majority of the company makes a noise of understanding. "That makes much more sense," Bofur agrees, "We’ll do so."

"What?" Kili asks, "Are we stealing food?"

***

Bilbo returns late in the night. He crouches down next to Dwalin with an exhausted sigh, and clears his throat. "Thorin says not to lose hope," Bilbo relays, "And to not betray our purpose."

Dwalin nods. "Does he have a plan?"

Bilbo visibly crumbles. "No," he says, "He said I need to break you out..."

"But did not tell you how?" Dwalin asks, and as much as Thorin is kin and king, sometimes he just wants to bash his head against a rock. Is he blind to the stress Bilbo is under? How does he think their burglar will come up with a plan when everybody else fails?

Bilbo is just shaking his head, and Dwalin grows aware of the minor tremors running through that thin body. Cold. Another sign of starvation.

With a curse Dwalin reaches for the bread he hid in his tunic. It has hardened, but it is better than nothing, so he pushes it through the bars.

"Eat," he orders.

Bilbo blinks, staring at the bread as if he'd never seen something alike before. Then he swallows, and reaches up with shaking fingers. "Is this alright?" he asks, "Won't you be hungry?"

"Eat," Dwalin repeats, and when Bilbo makes a move to take a bite, he continues, "I won't be hungry - we're being fed quite regularly. Also, the others should have saved something for you as well."

"Thank you," Bilbo mumbles, and then he is chewing and Dwalin can see he is holding himself back. Oin ought to see to him - he would know how to handle a starved body, Dwalin only knows a thing or two from experience.

But he'll do what he can.

"Master Dwalin?" Bilbo asks, and draws him from his contemplations.

"Could I sleep here again, tonight?" he asks, shyly, as I'd he expected to be refused. Dwalin snorts. "Of course," he grunts, "And it's just Dwalin. No Master or anything."

"Well, then please call me Bilbo," the hobbit replies and a hint of a smile spreads over his face.

Those smiles are dangerous, Dwalin thinks after he sent Bilbo to collect food from the rest of the company. They are small and polite, and you don't really pay attention to them, until you suddenly realize the warmth and kindness behind them.

Dwalin smirks. It feels like yesterday when he wouldn’t have cared much for their burglar's condition. Now he finds himself wanting to wrap him in a blanket and shield him from all evil. It's almost funny how easily Bilbo has wormed his way past Dwalin's defenses.

He didn't even notice. But he doesn't mind either.

Later, when Bilbo lies down and stretches his hand through the bars, Dwalin takes it without comment. And holds it all through the night.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm terribly sorry this update took so long. I also have quite a few prompts I haven't finished writing yet - it's been busy (travelling to NZ! Yay!), but while it will remain busy, at least I'll have my laptop nearby. So I hope the next installment is a bit quicker in coming, and it's probably going to be darker as well.


	27. A False Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo can heal injuries. Though the talent comes at the price that he will have to bear those injuries in exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that update took far too long and I'm dead tired, but I'll risk forgoing another read through and post tonight. My excuse for the continuing delay is a somewhat insane workload right now (but my holiday was lovely. Am already planning the next trip). 
> 
> But now to the story. Warnings:  
> Character Death. Violence. Drama. 10k words. 
> 
> And a thank you for the prompt!

Otho Baggins is wailing. A bleeding gash on his knee, a hole in his trousers and mud on his shins. His cousin Bilbo runs down the hill after him, eyes wide and heart pounding. He'd merely tried to push his cousin off - he hadn't wanted to hurt him.

"Otho!" he shouts, "Otho, I'm sorry!"

Otho continues crying, hiccupping and unable to form words. Blood runs down his leg, and that injury looks bad, terrible, and Bilbo's stomach turns.

"I'm sorry, Otho, really," he stammers as he drops into the grass next to his cousin. They're outside of Hobbiton, on that shortcut through the fields leading to a small lake. It's summer and the sky is cloudless - ideal weather for children to go and play in the shallow lakes around.  
But now Bilbo does not feel so cheerful anymore. Otho can't stop crying, though he's gasping for air, and the wound isn’t closing, and there's dirt in it as well.

He swallows. "Otho, I didn't mean to, really. Please, Otho, I'm sorry."

His cousin doesn’t budge, so Bilbo reaches out to rest a hand on Otho's shoulder, wishing to somehow convey to his cousin that he did not mean to hurt him. He has never felt so helpless, and he doesn't understand why it happened - he didn't mean to cause harm, didn't mean for Otho to bleed.

The moment his hand touches Otho's arm, a spark runs through Bilbo's spine. He gasps, doesn't hear Otho doing the same. For a moment, the world blurs, and Bilbo has to blink for it to refocus -

His cousin has stopped crying. There is still blood on his trousers, but then that terrible wound is gone, has disappeared, and Bilbo can only stare in disbelief, just as Otho does.

"What....?" Otho mumbles in that tear-choked voice, though is not crying any longer.

Bilbo blinks. And then he realizes that his knee hurts.

"You're bleeding!" Otho exclaims. There is large red stain spreading over Bilbo's trousers, all around his knee.

***

That was, Bilbo later resumes, the moment when he first discovered his talent. And while he had been glad to stop Otho from crying, his parents had not been happy. "Promise me you'll be careful when you use it," his father had asked him to, while he had wrapped the bleeding knee, his hands firm yet gentle.

His mother had sighed and ruffled Bilbo’s hair. "It's a talent some of your ancestors had as well, Bilbo. It can help, but just don't expect too much of it."

He learns what she meant when a few years later his grandmother falls terribly ill. And no matter how much Bilbo concentrates, he can't make her better. So she grows weaker, frailer, and when he asks his mother why late one night, she sighs. "As far as I know, it's really only wounds that can be

helped like this. And you do know, Bilbo, those wounds are not being healed. You only take them onto yourself - so be careful."

And Bilbo is. As he grows up, he learns that he can reasonably take on some of the scrapes his younger cousins suffer when playing too wildly, but he will not take on broken bones. He will not allow any of them to depend on this ridiculous power, not when it fails saving his father and mother just the way he could not save his grandmother before.

A rare talent it may be. But it seems to be not worth very much after all.

***

Bilbo is not certain if Gandalf actually knows of his talent and this is why he was picked. He has a feeling it has more to do with his complete unsuitability to traverse the wild. Within the first days he is drenched, his legs and bottom are sore, and he's dead tired because he can hardly sleep on the ground, with rocks and twigs poking into his flesh.

The dwarves have no such complains and snore happily on. Thorin seems to detest Bilbo's existence in general, while Gandalf is always exceedingly amused. Except for that evening, when Thorin refuses to go to Rivendell.

And while Bilbo does not agree with Thorin decision, he is somewhat relieved that there are also people in existence that can rile up Gandalf. Tough he is not quite so happy when he realizes, he now is alone with thirteen dwarves, who until now have barely tolerated him.

But the evening progresses without incident, until Bofur sends Bilbo to take dinner to Fili and Kili. Who have lost the ponies. To trolls.

If the situation wasn't so dire, Bilbo might have laughed. Instead, he has to find a good reason for the trolls not to cook his companions, or at least to stall until Gandalf arrives. Even though he does so rather late, and Bilbo for once shares the dwarves' grumpiness.

"What is it?" he hears Fili ask, and turns to see Fili help Kili up. The younger dwarf looks pale, and stumbles.

"My leg," Kili hisses and sinks down on a rock. Fili calls for Oin, and dread fills Bilbo. Hopefully this is not serious - but Kili wouldn't grimace like this if it was merely a scratch.

"Kili?" Thorin asks, having come up to the two. Fili helplessly shrugs his shoulders as Oin makes his way over.

"What is it?" he asks, gruffly.

"His leg," Fili gestures, and they all look down - but through the rough fabric of Kili's trousers, no injury is visible.

"On the back," Kili hisses between clenched teeth, "It's on the back."

"Well, then turn over," Oin orders.

Kili is a bit hesitant, and Bilbo has to admit it is not very dignified, especially when Oin tells him to drop his trousers. But except Kili, nobody else comments.

Then Bilbo catches sight of the injury and has to suppress a gasp. Along the back of Kili's shin runs a long, bleeding cut. It's not very wide, but bleeds heavily, and Bilbo's stomach rolls at the sight.

Oin mumbles something under his breath, and Thorin asks, "Where did you get this?"

And Bilbo knows exactly when that happened, even before Kili answers.

"When ... I tried to catch Mr. Boggins... When the trolls had him..." Kili stutters, and then squeaks as Oin presses down on the wound.

Bilbo's heart clenches guiltily. He knows he isn't skilled, he never meant to get anybody hurt on his account.

"That'll need stitches," he announces, and Kili grows paler. Thorin turns to glare at Bilbo as Oin to shuffles off to retrieve his pack, and Bilbo feels cold. He avoids Thorin's gaze, looks at wound on Kili's leg.

He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't ...

Bilbo purses his lips. The dwarves won't understand - they still think he almost made the trolls eat them. This will only rob him of whatever sympathies remain.

Unless he is foolish. The wound looks painful, and it'll probably hurt Bilbo more than Kili. Hobbits are not as hardy as dwarves, and Bilbo has fainted from cutting himself on a fish knife.

But Kili did get hurt for him.

Discarding his deliberations, Bilbo steps forward. As he stops right before Kili, he can sense Fili's bewilderment and Thorin's mistrust. When he reaches out, Thorin takes a step forward as if to stop him, exclaiming, "What are you doing?"

But he is a split second too late. Bilbo feels the spark run down his spine, just before Thorin catches his wrist and drags his hand away from Kili's calf. The young dwarf blinks, confused, while pain explodes in Bilbo's leg.

He bites down on his lip to stop the scream from escaping, but his knees buckle, and he lands on the ground with Thorin's hand still wrapped around his wrist.

"What happened?" he hears Fili wonder, and Kili shouts his name, but it's all distant, barely audible over the pounding of his heart and the searing pain in his leg. It burns, and he has to gasp for air because his lungs don't properly expand, and it's blinding - and somebody is shaking him.

"Master Baggins!" Kili is shouting, and he is holding Bilbo upright by his shoulders, "Bilbo! Bilbo!"

He blinks, tries to focus. Kili is staring at him, intently, Fili just behind his shoulder, pale and confused. Thorin stands to the side, a frown on his face.

"Bilbo, what did you do?" Kili exclaims, and Bilbo thinks of course, the dwarves don't know, and there was a reason, but he's abruptly feeling quite exhausted. Black starts to creep into his vision, and the last thing he hears is Fili.

"Mahal, his leg - Oin! Hurry up, Oin!"

***

Kili feels the body in his arms growing slack, and fumbles to keep hold of their burglar. Bilbo's head lolls back, and Kili barely manages to avoid slamming it against a rock - he's terrified of doing further harm, doesn't understand how his injury now is Bilbo's, and the body in his arms frighteningly fragile.

"Here, set him down," Fili instructs, spreading his coat on the ground. Kili swallows, and allows his fingers to unclench - then Oin is there, forcing him aside.

"What's that?" their healer asks, hands reaching for the sluggishly bleeding wound, "Where did he get this?"

"It's mine," Kili stutters.

"Eh?" Oin glances up.

"On a rock," Fili shouts, "He fell over a rock."

Oin nods, and turns back to the ground. Kili stares at his brother - they both know that this is how Kili got the wound, not Bilbo. Thorin, too, frowns down on them.

"He'll need stitches," Oin announces before any of them can speak, "Get my kit, lad."

And Fili takes off before Kili can even climb to his feet. He turns his eyes back to Bilbo - the hobbit's face is slack and pale, and Kili thinks that this is not what he wanted, no matter how bad the pain was.

All he can do is stare helplessly as blood continues to run down Bilbo’s leg, staining the ground while the hobbit remains unconscious. Oin is turning a cord into a makeshift tourniquet, because Bilbo is so pale – there is so much blood, and how much more can their burglar lose?

Kili blinks. The question that falls from his lip is a soft “How…?” that is almost swallowed by the wind. By chance, though, Balin picks it up. He heaves a sigh. “I don’t know. But there are more things between the sky and the earth than we know or understand. We’ll have to ask him once he wakes.”

***

There is no time for asking questions. First Gandalf is demanding answers how his burglar got so badly injured, then a second wizard shows up with ill tidings, and then there are orcs and wargs. Oin slings the limp body of their burglar over his shoulder as they race for safety.

“One of your number is injured,” Elrond says as they reach Rivendell, “Come and rest. We can provide shelter and supplies, and our healers shall care for him.”

Oin tightens his grip. “He’s my patient.”

“Then they shall follow your instructions,” Elrond replies patiently. He inclines his head, and Oin might not like elves, but he is not going to turn down supplies. There is an ugly flush on Bilbo’s cheeks that he does not like.

Thorin frowns, while Gandalf leans forward. “There is something else I must speak to you about,” he says – Oin can tell from his expression that these are no good news. He only hopes they are not related to their quest – their luck has been bad enough.

Bilbo’s body twitches – it’s a slight movement, but Oin knows that he needs to set his patient down. All the running and jostling cannot have done him any good. So he ignores the hesitance displayed by Thorin, Dwalin and his own brother and steps forward.

“Please, lead the way.”

***

Bilbo wakes to sunlight on his face and fluttering, white curtains. The bed he rests on his soft and warm, yet his body feels stiff. As if he’d overexerted himself –

His memories come back abruptly, and he releases a sigh. Embarrassing that his last memory is collapsing in front of them company. He’d known that the pain would be bad, he’d just not expected his body to give out.

After all, he has healed his fair share of leg injuries before.

In response, his leg itches, and Bilbo tries to rub it against the sheets. Something tugs at the skin – not painful, but weird and stomach-turning – and when Bilbo carefully draws the covers aside he discovers stitches.

His stomach lurches.

He’s quick to hide the leg under the covers again, and gazes around looking for a distraction. The room is utterly unfamiliar, and only now he realizes he has no idea where he is. Have the dwarves brought him to a healer in some settlement and moved on? How much time has passed? Has he been left behind?

Before he can work himself into a frenzy or even try to get up, the door opens and an unfamiliar elf comes in, holding a bowl and a washcloth.  
“Ah, Master Hobbit, you are awake!” he exclaims, “Your companions will be glad to hear it!”

***

Several hours later – the sun is setting outside – Bilbo finds himself surrounded by the entire company plus a wizard and Lord Elrond of Rivendell. His fingers keep toying with the blanket covering his legs, and he feels strange being at the center of attention.

“I hope you forgive our curiosity,” Lord Elrond says with a smile that does wonders to soothe Bilbo’s fraying nerves, “But it has been a long time since I heard of something similar.”

His chest clenches. For a moment he remembers his mother, warning him not to let the knowledge spread.

“Indeed, I have never heard of such a thing at all,” Oin harrumphs. Kili and Fili watch anxiously, while Thorin has his arms crossed before his chest.

“Only in ancient history texts…” Ori mumbles, “Or myths, rather, I think.”

“That is all very well,” Balin intercedes, “But why don’t we let Master Baggins tells us what happened.”

Bilbo purses his lips. Now, with the danger gone, he wonders why he betrayed his secret so carelessly. Kili would have lived, and dwarves are known to be hardy. Only Bilbo was weak to his own sense of guilt and the glares cast his way.

“It … well, it…” he stammers, looking down, “It’s … it’s supposed to be a secret.”

A murmur goes up, and Bilbo hunches his shoulders. Nori leans forward. “So can more of your kind do this?”

“No,” Bilbo shakes his head, “No, it’s … they…” He trails off.

Lord Elrond clears his throat. “Master Baggins, if you are uncomfortable talking about it, please do not feel forced.”

He casts an eloquent look at the dwarves. There have been, according to the rumors Bofur was happy to share with Bilbo during the afternoon, a number of them. Elves may have few dealings with hobbits, but are generally fond of them. On the other hand, the dislike between dwarves and elves is legendary. And so, the arrival of a company of dwarves with one injured hobbit caused some suspicions.

Bilbo has been flustered ever since.

“No, I… I’ll tell you,” Bilbo protests. He can trust these people. Gandalf and Elrond naturally, and he has to trust the dwarves.

He bites down on his lower lip and tells himself to stop stammering. It’s a very simple tale after all, and he does not need the rest of the world reading any more into it.

“It’s nothing but a particular talent,” he eventually manages, “Apparently it sometimes shows up in my mother’s family, though it’s rare.”

“And what is that talent exactly?” Gandalf inquires, a deep frown on his face.

“Well, I can heal injuries in a manner,” Bilbo replies.

“So why did you get injured, then?” Kili exclaims, pushing forward, “You got hurt when you healed me! Why did that happen?”

Bilbo flinches, and Fili pulls Kili back. “It’s, well, maybe healing is the wrong word?” Bilbo suggests faintly, “I mean, I do heal people, so …”

“But you take on their injury in turn,” Dwalin growls from where he is standing next to the door, “That’s not healing, laddie, that’s just exchanging your health for another’s.”

“Yeah, err, well, perhaps it is?” Bilbo replies, “Honestly, I’ve never put much thought into it. It really isn’t all that much, if you …”

“And yet you said it was secret,” Thorin interrupts.

Bilbo shrinks further into his blanket and pillows. “Well, they … there were rumors that it could be abused.”

“And those certainly were not wrong,” Gandalf thunders and glares in Thorin’s direction, “Perhaps you should have taken those warnings a bit more seriously – as Kili has said, what you do is not healing, but just taking on somebody else’s injuries. That’s not –“

Bilbo lifts a hand. “I know, Gandalf,” he says, “I know.”

“Then why did you do it?” Fili asks.

And that is the question Bilbo cannot answer. Not without revealing his heart, and he trusts the dwarves with his secrets, but not with this.

So he glances outside where night is slowly falling and shrugs his shoulders. “Seemed like a good idea back then.”

***

As they leave Rivendell the dwarves remain distanced, but the atmosphere feels friendlier. Bilbo chats with Bofur, and sometimes with Ori and Fili. Kili is either awkward or too close – he is the first to set aside food for Bilbo or help him up a steep slope. But when Bilbo tries to talk to him, the young dwarf turns his head aside and stammers.

“He’s feeling guilty,” Bofur tells him one cloudy afternoon as they are making their way down another mountain, “Especially after finding out you basically traded your health for his. It’s not right for us.”

Bilbo shrugs. “He got hurt because of me in first place.”

“Hm, well, but you did not hurt him yourself, did you?” Bofur asks lightly, “You see, that is quite important to us. He got hurt trying to help you, and we think we’ve got to be responsible for our own actions, you know. So him getting hurt is the consequence of his own doing – no matter why or what for.”

Bilbo huffs, stopping for breath, before directing a rare toothy smile at Bofur. “And healing him was my own action, too.”

Bofur blinks, and Bilbo chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m aware or what I’m doing. I’m being careful.”

It’s just that everybody else is skilled in battle and Bilbo isn’t. So, logic suggests, he might very well shoulder those injuries in order to keep everybody else in their best condition.

***

Bilbo never gets to talk to Kili. Instead he encounters stone giants, goblins, strange creatures and Azog the Defiler. Madness and fear war in his veins as he draws his own blade – and how should a letter opener ever fare well against the blood-encrusted mace the defiler wields? – and throws himself into the fray.

***

Thorin comes to abruptly, heart in his throat. Last he saw was Azog bearing down on him, and an insane hobbit jumping between them, but there's only darkness after that. His body feels sore, though he remembers the mace catching him in the chest -

"Mahal, what did you do?" Somebody is shouting, and Thorin blinks. A weight is resting across his chest, and suddenly he hears Kili muttering "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much," and his nephew is crying?

"Kili, did you ..." Balin gasps, catching his breath, and Thorin finally, finally manages to push himself upright on his elbow, dislodging the dead weight - of a hobbit sprawled across his chest.

The pieces fall into place immediately.

Carefully Thorin sits up, making sure to keep a gentle hold on their burglar, but Bilbo does not even stir, and Thorin wishes Oin would be a bit faster, or Gandalf was here - but the company is scattered, with many still in the air, while a giant eagle deposits Bofur on the far end of the hill.  
Had circumstances been different, Thorin would have marveled at this wondrous rescue. But there is a still hobbit in his arms, and Kili has tears streaming down his face, while Fili stares in frozen shock.

"Uncle, you... " Fili mutters, but his voice hitches and he hides his face. Kili sobs, presses the heel of his hand against his eyes, and shakes his head.

"He healed you, did he?" Balin asks, as he reaches Thorin, Dwalin not far behind, helping Oin upward.

Thorin swallows and nods. The body in his arms is unmoving and too light and still - and this isn't how he ever wished for his life to be saved. Not at such a terrible cost. Not when Bilbo already cast himself between Thorin and Azog.

"Bilbo, is he...?" Fili whispers, and Thorin wants to hug his nephew - Fili should not look so pale. Should not be out here, if Thorin is honest. The boys are too young, too inexperienced for cruelties such as Azog's. Knowing the tales is different from meeting the foe.

"Turn him over," Oin orders with a huff, "Quickly now, he might not have all day."

Thorin swallows and tugs the hobbit to lie on his back across Thorin's lap. The movement reminds him of his restored health - and the price that it took. Bilbo is chalky white, with a deep cut on his cheek and another under his hairline. Fresh red stains those golden curls, making them stick to too pale skin. But the hobbit sucks in a shuddering breath, and Thorin cannot deny the relief flooding his heart.

Oin leans in, fingers dancing across the hobbit's chest, a frown on his face. Thorin follows, but there are no visible bloodstains on the vest, and he was wearing armor when the mace caught him, but he remembers not being able to breathe right, so -

Bilbo coughs abruptly, a small, rasping sound that has Oin yell at him to turn Bilbo's head and make sure he doesn't suffocate, and Thorin's heart clenches. The body in his arms shudders, as it struggles to suck in air, the coughs growing successively wetter - until a thin stream of blood dribbles from Bilbo's lips.

Thorin's blood freezes. He hears Oin curse, sees Fili pale further and Kili shout the hobbit's name, but cannot stop the mad spiraling of his thoughts. The moment the mace had connected, he had known. Of course, he had known. The armor might have prevented his chest from being smashed in immediately, but that blow had caused serious harm.

Harm that now Bilbo suffers.

"Thorin!" a new voice shouts, and Gandalf is running up to them, "Thorin, are you - Bilbo! What happened to him?"

"He took on Thorin's injuries," Balin says, quickly, before anybody else can speak up, "Can you do something?"

Oin doesn't look up from where he is palpitating Bilbo's chest, trying to find the damage, "Something's wrong with his lungs - I don't think it's anything I can heal here."

Kili gasps and Thorin presses his lips together. Should Gandalf be unable to help...

The wizard does not even reply, instead he drops down, casts one hand over Bilbo's face and another over the hobbit's chest. Closes his eyes in concentration and begins to mutter in a strange language - and Thorin does not dare to breathe.

The air feels terribly still, and Gandalf keeps chanting.

And then he gives a small gasp, sits back and breathes out, just as Bilbo's eyelids flutter.

"Bilbo!" Kili exclaims, while Fili turns to Gandalf, "Is, is he alright?"

Thorin cannot look away, as Bilbo stirs in his arms. Those are small invisible movements, but with his hands clutching Bilbo's shoulders like a lifeline, he can feel every one of them. Color is returning to those pale cheeks as well, even though the gashes linger - a stark reminder that their burglar is not made for brutal encounters.

"He will be," Gandalf announces, "With some rest and care, I believe he should recover fully."

Thank Mahal, Thorin thinks, and sees Kili slump from the corner of his eye. Fili sinks back, leaning heavily against his brother, and Balin sighs loudly. The entire company lets go of a breath and relief, for the first time since the ground caved beneath them, truly spreads.

It is a miracle they survived the madness. Goblins, wargs and Azog himself - and Thorin himself now owes his life to their smallest member.

As he glances down, he finds Bilbo blinking, his eyes barely open, but awake. "Bilbo," he breathes, and the hobbit weakly tilts his head. His lips open, as if to speak, but Thorin shakes his head. "We're save, Master Baggins," he tells their burglar, "You can rest."

Bilbo blinks, and for a moment he seems to be gauging something. Then he closes his eyes, and Thorin feels the body in his arms growing slack once more.

A gust of wind races across the mountain top, and Thorin realizes, that midday has almost passed. They will have to find a way down, safe as the mountain may be, it is exposed to the elements.

As if he had read his thoughts, Gandalf pushes himself up. "There is a house not far from here," he announces, "We might find shelter there."

And while Thorin would have asked for the details any other time, now he merely wraps Bilbo in his own coat, all too aware of how much can still go wrong, and agrees to go there.

***

Beorn grumpily allows them to stay. The skinchanger denies to be acquainted with Gandalf, and does not like dwarves either. But their story evokes his understanding and Bilbo’s still form, wrapped in Thorin’s oversized fur coat, wins his sympathy.

Thorin settles Bilbo on a soft mat next to the fire, and with Gandalf’s reassurance in his mind, turns away. He needs to speak to Balin and to regain his bearings – he does not even know how far off path they have come.

Before he finds Balin, Gloin finds him.

He pats Thorin’s shoulder. “Alright?” he asks, and when Thorin replies positively, Gloin shakes his head, “Aye, but don’t do that again. Almost gave me a heart attack – and I really understand why Balin’s gone white so early and Dwalin hasn’t got any hair left to speak of. Really, have you always been so impulsive?”

Though he can tell Gloin means well, Thorin cannot deny the words sting. Looking back he understands that he endangered them all with his poorly thought-out actions, but seeing Azog had just caused a knee-jerk reaction.

“Just don’t rush into it next time,” Gloin tells him, “And you should talk to the lads. They, well, might do with a word of advice?”

“I will,” Thorin says – he remembers the terror on his nephews’ faces all too clearly. And while he is the leader, he needs to be their uncle, too.

Gloin doesn’t retreat. Instead, he frowns. “Well, it’s not my place to say, and it probably did not amount to anything… But you were not conscious, and they were next to you and Bilbo came running up to them. I don’t really know what went on, I just heard Kili telling Bilbo to save you …”

And knowing what they know about their hobbit’s peculiar talent that might have equaled Kili asking Bilbo to die in Thorin’s place. He gives Gloin a short nod, signaling he has understood the problem there.

***

It takes two days until Bilbo stays awake for more than two hours at a time. He still looks terrible and Oin has strictly forbidden any attempts at getting up - and the company is glad to see the order obeyed. For Thorin especially the memory of holding that helplessly twitching body in his arms is much too clear.

"Will we be staying here much longer?" Bilbo asks on the evening of their fourth night at Beorn's. He's still too pale and looking like a strong wind could blow him over, but his cheeks at least have regained some color.

"Perhaps a fortnight," Thorin replies, "We need to recover and to restock before we go through Mirkwood."

"Still, aren't we running out of time?" The hobbit inquires.

Thorin sighs and wonders how he could ever have called their burglar a burden. He is rather all too willing to sacrifice himself. "We'll take time for everybody to heal," he tells Bilbo, "This might the last respite we get before reaching Erebor."

Bilbo straightens. "Who else got hurt?"

His fingers twitch and Thorin thinks if he could, the hobbit would go and heal them. It's not healthy, this habit, and with the severity of injuries it might just kill him one day. Dwarves are made from stone - they can bear harm and broken bones. He does not know about hobbits, but they do not appear as hardy.

"Only cuts and scratches and some sprains," Thorin tells Bilbo. He does not mention that Ori also got concussed and both Bifur and Nori needed stitches for their cuts. And Dwalin is going to have to wield his axes in one hand until his left shoulder is completely healed.

Bilbo hums and falls silent.

"I talked to Kili, too," Thorin says as the silence drags on, "He understands- neither him nor anybody else will ask you to heal injuries from now on."

Bilbo glances up. "That... well, thank you, but that was not necessary."

"You were about to heal me anyway?" Thorin asks, suppressing his frown for the moment.

Bilbo twists the blanket between his fingers. "Yes," he replies, "I mean, I can, so why shouldn't I?"

Thorin takes a deep breath to calm himself. Watches the flames flicker merely, and reminds himself that all is well. "You could have died," he tells their burglar, "Those were serious injuries. Had Gandalf not been there, we might not have been able to help you."

Even thinking about it makes a shudder run down his spine. Yet Bilbo studies him quietly, his face still so unmarked by the world's cruelty in spite of the healing cut on his cheek.

"Well, it was my decision," Bilbo says, "And I did know Gandalf would follow soon. So I knew what I was doing. And please, before you scold the boys - they did not talk me into healing you. I decided that and I knew what I was doing."

Thorin frowns. "You almost died!"

"I knew what I was doing," Bilbo insists, shaking his head, "I know what I am capable of, you have to trust me on this."

And Thorin wants nothing more than to shake some sense into their burglar, but he cannot do that, not when Bilbo is still visibly recovering.

Instead, he sighs deeply. "You should not be so quick to risk your life, then. Especially with your talent - once you are dead, you cannot heal anybody."

Bilbo nods gently. "I know, Thorin. I know."

***

The dungeons of Mirkwood drain Bilbo’s strength worse than healing ever has done. The constant darkness, the whispers in the back of his mind, the lack of food all drive him toward the brink of total exhaustion. His hands tremble constantly now, and even though Bofur and Bifur are saving food for him, it is not nearly enough.

He haunts the dungeons, dodges elves, discovers Thorin, listens to foreboding conversations and is slowly but certainly losing hope. There is no escape, and even if – there is nothing but a bewitched forest awaiting them. He does not know if he would last another fortnight among those glowing eyes and giant spiders.

Dori is holding his hand, preventing Bilbo from disappearing as he does when he wants to escape the questions. It’s strange how on one hand he is starved for company, but feels too drained to hold a conversation.

“Say, Master Baggins, I was wondering,” Dori whispers, “Can you also heal yourself?”

Bilbo blinks, startled.

“Because when you heal people you essentially exchange your condition for theirs. So perhaps the reverse is also possible?” Dori’s grip on Bilbo’s wrist tightens slightly. “If so, I believe all of us would be more than willing to help you out.”

For a moment Bilbo is speechless.

“Please, let us know if there is way for us to help you,” Dori continues, “I know it sits ill with me to be sitting here while trying to arrange for our escape is so visibly taxing you.”

“I…” Bilbo stammers, “Well, thank you. Truly, thank you. But no, I’m afraid the reverse does not work.”

Dori frowns. “Please be honest.”

“It doesn’t,” Bilbo returns and hopes his voice conveys that he wishes it would. What he wouldn’t do just to feel well-rested again for once.

“Did you try?” Dori asks, unhappily.

Bilbo casts his memory back. Somehow, the knowledge is intrinsic – but he might have attempted it. Back when he had first found out about his ability. In a fit of pique he’d gone, kicked his own foot against a tree and then tried to transfer it to his cousin Fortinbras.

It hadn’t worked and had only made Fortinbras look at him strangely for the rest of the week.

The memory is enough to make Bilbo relax for a short moment. Enough so he can turn to Dori and confess with a half-smile that “Yes, I did try. And no, it doesn’t work.”

***

"Are you alright?" Bilbo shouts as he struggles out of the water. His entire body is aching, and he can't breathe right, but the dwarves collapsed on the shore are groaning and retching and he's terrified his escape plan will end in a catastrophe. "Fili - Balin, is everybody alright? Was anybody hurt?"

His heart is racing, as he sees Ori stagger toward his brothers. At least Dori seems alright, wringing water from his beard, but Nori is sitting down and not moving. Did he break something?

"Calm down," Kili laughs, eyes still sparkling with laughter, "They're quite all right."

Balin nods. "Though I have to admit that for my old bones that was a little too much excitement."

Bilbo stumbles forward, now almost out of the water. The world keeps spinning, and he isn't certain if he should believe them. His head hurts.

"And Fili's only sick because his barrel smelled like apples," Kili adds, and Fili's face turns green before he retches once more. Kili is more amused than worried.

"If anything, you look like the one in most need of healing," somebody growls right next to Bilbo, and before he knows what has happened, he is picked up and lifted out of the water. With three long steps Dwalin has him on the shore and puts him down on a rock.

"You can't heal yourself?" he asks. Bilbo blinks and just manages to shake his head when Dwalin already turns to call for Oin.

As the dwarf shuffles over and makes Bilbo unbutton his vest and shirt, while Thorin joins them. Even wet and bedraggled he still cuts an impressive figure - compare to how pathetic Bilbo thinks he must look.

Thorin just stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching as the company members struggle to regain their equilibrium.

"We should head to Laketown," Balin tells Thorin, "We need supplies and a rest, too. There is still enough time until Durin's day.

Thorin frowns, but before he can speak up, a hiss from Oin interrupts him. "Why didn't you come to me sooner?" their healer shouts at Bilbo, "You should have at least told us you were starving!"

The outline of his ribcage is clearly visible underneath too pale skin, and Bilbo averts his face. Even under the clear sky, the darkness of Mirkwood's dungeon still presses on his heart. Oin tuts, and turns to Thorin and tells him they will need food. And something warm to wear for their burglar.

Thorin nods and his eyes find Bilbo's. The look in them is warm, caring and Bilbo's heart is still aflutter when Thorin addresses the company: "We head to Laketown."

***

Bilbo spends the first days in Laketown abed, drifting in and out of consciousness. When he is awake, his dwarves assure him that all is well and he need not worry - there is time. Outside, though the days grow shorter and the first snowflakes drift by.

Eventually he does recover and they have to plan for the journey onward. The last leg, and it feels strange that is should truly be happening. All through their trip Erebor had always appeared a distant goal, sometimes barely more than a dream. That they should have come so far -

A shudder runs down Bilbo's spine.

"And no healing anybody before we leave, Master Baggins," Dori reprimands that last evening, "You need to be healthy."

Bilbo nods and swallows. Not long now until he may face a dragon. His talent will be of little use then.

"Maybe somebody else should go in," Kili suggests, "If they got injured, Bilbo might be able to heal them."

Bilbo’s heart hitches. He knows this can’t work – he knows the reasons. And yet a small part of his heart wishes for nothing more than having somebody else face Smaug.

"Doesn’t work that way, laddie," Balin says gently, "Smaug will recognize a dwarf's scent within moments."

Bilbo, too, musters a weak smile from where is packing what is a necessity to take to the mountain. "You dwarves are terrible at sneaking. He'd hear you coming, before you'd see him."

And, what nobody dares to speak, but they all know - should Smaug catch an intruder, there is little hope that those injuries could ever be healed. Instant incineration is more likely, and Thorin looks at Bilbo and hopes that will not come to pass.

***

The sky is clear when they reach the mountain. It's a chilly day, but as they hike uphill, a sweat breaks out on Bilbo's skin. Under the bright light, the land around them is barren and dead. Only the ruins of Dale provide a dash of ash-covered color, and a shudder runs down Bilbo's spine.  
His little talent, he thinks, is quite worthless in face of such desolation. What can he do but heal scrapes and cuts, what does that matter in a world where dragons may lay waste to kingdoms in mere hours?

He turns with a sigh and continues. But this is but a taste of what is still to come - and Bilbo learns how it is to feel truly small and powerless. Smaug toys with him, first, and then they cannot do anything but watch as the dragon descends upon Laketown.

Smaug is slain. However, Bilbo thinks as his stomach twists and turns, at what price? What price did their victory come at?

At the border of the Lake, visible from the gates of Erebor by its red shine, Laketown burns. And then the gold sickness claims Thorin's mind.

Bilbo cannot say he understands his friends any longer. Gold is all they look at nowadays, gems and riches, and all thoughts of food and friends have vanished. But Bilbo does not understand his own actions either. Not when he smuggles the Arkenstone out of the mountain and into the camp of Bard and Thranduil, knowing fully well that this is betrayal.

That Thorin will never forgive him.

And it breaks his heart to destroy these friendships, yet he sees no other way. There are bags underneath his eyes, and a pain in his chest that no talent can heal. That does not change when hands close around his throat, and he is dangled out over the wall. The wind roars in his ears, his lungs burn and Thorin screams from madness and fury, and Bilbo thinks that this is a sort of pain he cannot heal.

His own heart breaks, because he didn't want to hurt anybody. He knows the gold has driven Thorin insane - but this betrayal is all too real.

"Get him away from me!" Thorin orders as he flings Bilbo to the ground. The hobbit lands with a thud, his shoulder burning, and his head spinning. He coughs, struggling to sit up, desperate to do something.

"Thorin -" he gasps, "I..."

"Get him away or I will not be responsible for my actions!" Thorin thunders and reaches for his sword. Gandalf shouts for him to desist, but there is fire in Thorin's eyes and they are fixed on Bilbo.

"I..." Bilbo stammers, with his throat closing up, and then Dwalin steps forward. "Be that as it may," he grunts, "He could still be useful."

And Bilbo's heart sinks.

"No," Thorin declares, "I will die before I ask a traitor to heal me."

***

Bilbo has known grief. Has watched his father die and his mother follow. Had to bury one cousin far too young. But as he sits in Thranduil's tent, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, it feels as if his heart is being torn into two.

The mug in his hands has long gone cold and he only looks up when somebody clears their throat directly in front of him.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says, and now he is wearing his customary robe and hat again, “What has happened to you?”

Concern mars his features and Bilbo glances aside. He is aware he must look a mess – Thorin’s hands have left purpling bruises on his throat and his cheek is cut up from where he hit the ground – but all those hurts are irrelevant when his soul has been shredded.

He cannot even muster any anger at Gandalf – who, in the end, is the reason Bilbo is here.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf calls again, and nudges Bilbo’s face toward him with a gentle hand, “I know this is hard, and I’m sorry you got dragged into this, but you do understand that this is a curse? Thorin is not quite himself, though that does not excuse his actions.”

Bilbo blinks. He has held the Arkenstone in his own hands – felt its thrall and power. But knowing this does not soften the grip of phantom hands around his throat in the slightest.

“Thorin was wrong to treat you as he did, and I believe he will realize it in time,” Gandalf tells him and pulls the blanket around Bilbo’s shoulders up, “Just don’t despair in the meantime.”

The wizard smiles, then, and for once the expression is free of schemes. This is merely Gandalf, the friend of his mother’s, who’d always had a soft spot for young, adventurous hobbits. And who is worried what his good intentions have caused.

Bilbo sighs. Darkness claws at his heart, but he cannot leave Gandalf without an answer. “Gandalf, I – “

“Mithrandir!” an elf exclaims, stumbling into the tent. He’s breathing hard, and his hair is askew, “Mithrandir!”

“What is it?” Gandalf barks and Bilbo holds his breath.

“Orcs,” the elven messenger gasps, “An army of orcs. Twenty hundred at least – they’ll be here by nightfall.”

***

There is no time to get away. With the orcs closing in, all save paths have been shut, and elves, men and dwarves abruptly find themselves back to back. By midday Dain has come himself with an envoy and has sent a runner up to Erebor.

While the gates stay closed, Gandalf worries about Bilbo.

“You could hide in Laketown,” Bard suggests, “We’ll be shutting down the lights, ready boats and destroy the bridge connecting the town to the land – it’s not a terribly effective defense, but it’ll save lives and orcs don’t swim that well. Those out on the water will be safest.”

Bilbo shifts uncomfortably on the cushioned seat. He doesn’t know why he was asked here – he leads no army, and he is the only one of his kind present. What he thinks should not have that much consequence.

“That seems wise,” Thranduil agrees, “This place will be a battlefield by nightfall. If you leave soon, you will make it to the lake before sundown.”

“Are there even enough boats left for your people?” Bilbo asks instead, “I thought Smaug burned the majority.”

Bard grimaces and rubs at his shoulder – there is a burn hidden under his clothes there, Bilbo knows, and guilt wells up in his chest. “Well, you’re not taking up much space, this should be alright.”

Bilbo closes his eyes. “Even so, I’d rather a child have my place.”

“Bilbo!” Gandalf protests, and half rises from his seat. Even Dain frowns and Bard growls, though Thranduil leans back and crosses his arms. “And what will you do if you stay? We cannot spare any men to protect you, and the battle will find you.”

“Without meaning to offend, Master Hobbit,” Dain adds, “It appears you might end up being underfoot and thereby causing harm inadvertently. I do not doubt you do not wish for this, but as you have admitted to never having been in battle, I believe staying away from tonight’s would be the wiser choice.”

Gandalf casts a curious glance at Dain – the King of the Iron Hills must know what Bilbo has done, and formed his own judgment – but Bilbo shakes his head. “I do not mean to cause trouble, and I am aware I will be of little help in a fight.”

“However,” Bilbo says and looks straight at the four others present, “I can heal.”

Gandalf’s mien darkens, Bard splutters and Thranduil raises one eyebrow. “What do you mean?” Dain exclaims, “Are you saying, you – “

Bilbo stands up. “You have a burn on your shoulder, Bard,” Bilbo says and walks toward him, “Let us see it, please.”

Bard stiffens in his seat. There is one loud sigh from Gandalf and Thranduil leans forward. “Please do,” he encourages Bard, “I have a feeling nothing bad will come of this.”

“On your head be it,” Bard hisses, while Bilbo tilts his head. “I promise this will be alright.”

As Bard peels away the layers, Bilbo takes a deep breath. “Some of my ancestors had a peculiar ability,” he tells the room at large, “They could heal injuries with just a touch of their hand. Some called it magic, and others grew afraid. Thought to kill them for having that talent or sought to enslave them to use the talent for themselves. Needless to say, the secret has been kept ever since.”

“I have heard of this,” Thranduil acknowledges, and Dain, too, inclines his head, “Though it always appeared more of a myth.”

“Nowadays it is,” Bilbo says, “I’m the first in five generations to have that talent.”

And when Bard has removed the last piece of clothing, they all can see the raw wound. The flesh is dark, charred and blistered, though it does not bleed any longer.

But it is painful, Bilbo realizes, when he concentrates and the wound reappears on his shoulder. It is terribly painful and hot, and much larger on a small hobbit body. He can’t suppress the gasp that falls from his lips, and then suddenly Gandalf is holding him by the shoulders and Bard asks what happened and how he did this.

Bilbo is directed back to his chair, and when his vision clears he is sitting down and Gandalf has pulled back his coat to peer at the burn now on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bard is directly behind him, his brow ceased.

“That might be useful, then,” he mutters.

Bilbo blinks and manages a bleak smile. “I could support the healers.”

“Could, certainly,” Thranduil interrupts, “But it would be foolish. Your talent, Bilbo Baggins, is not one of healing. Whomever you decide to save you will be saving at the price at your own life.”

And with that he sweeps from the tent. Dain, too, clears his throat and rises. “Much as dwarves disagree with elves,” he says, “He is right. And I believe none of us want to see you come to harm, so we would all feel safer if you chose to evacuate to Laketown.”

***

Bilbo never goes to Laketown. Dain and Thranduil may have spoken their recommendations, but they do not know Bilbo. And the uproar in his heart renders him deaf to Gandalf’s supplications, until, in the end, he is allowed to run messages between healers and supplies.

There is no time to sit down and think. Bilbo is still figuring out the different organization systems in place when the sun goes down and the world falls silent. For a moment it is as if time had stopped – no wind, no bird – and the air so terribly still.

The sky is a light blue with the first stars twinkling on the western horizon. No ripple disturbs the lake’s surface, no clouds shroud Erebor’s peak.

And then a howl tears through the air.

This is it, Bilbo thinks, and a shudder runs down his spine. He’s stumbling across the dark plain, two bags of bandages under his arms as the night irrevocably changes around him. The air hisses as arrows are fired, strings hum and sing, and then there are thuds and choked gasps.

The screaming starts. A tent goes up in flames. Weapons sing their cold, clear song of death and blood. Smoke fills the air and Bilbo is

coughing, wiping at his eyes. He can’t save them, he can’t, he tells himself as he sees elves dragging their companions from a burning tent and runs on.

A breeze picks up, cooling the sweat on Bilbo’s forehead, as the head healer – a man from Laketown – intercepts him, grabs the bandages and shouts “We need more! Get more!”

And he is running again, his heart in his throat, as the night is tinted in shades of red and orange. Bilbo gasps for air, stumbles over something – and is that a body over there? A high-pitched scream nearby, and he falters, fishes for his ring –

But somebody grabs his shoulders and drags him away and Bilbo thinks he can’t leave, can’t flee – the healers are counting on him, he has a task to fulfill –

The screaming is so loud he does not hear what is said. But they can’t be abandoning their posts already, hasn’t the battle only begun? Are they already abandoning their hurt and injured and if so, who will survive the night? Is there any hope at all left?

Are they –

With a roar that overshadows all other noise the gates of Erebor burst open. Weapons and armor glitter in the night, polished weapons forged from rare gems and mithril twinkle with starlight. And the first of them, tall and handsome, points his sword to the sky, and Bilbo’s heart catches.

Thorin, he thinks. Thorin and the company have come to fight. Will this be –

Something hits his head and never gets to finish the though.

***

When Bilbo wakes, the noises have faded. His head hurts brutally, his vision is splotchy, and his entire body hurts. He can’t move, and doesn’t understand why it matters, or where he is –

“Bilbo!” somebody exclaims, and Bilbo blinks until he recognizes Gloin on the cot next to him.

“What?” he slurs, and finds his limbs reluctant to move. His memories are unclear, but there a bandage wrapped around Gloin’s head, and there was a battle and –

“Did we win?” he murmurs.

“If not, we would not be here,” Gloin replies, and massages a bandaged shoulder, “But what are you still doing here? Why did you not leave before? We were so sure you had – “

“What of the others?” Bilbo stammers, and pushes himself upright. The tent is in an uproar, with elves and dwarves and men running all over the place. His head pounds. “Are they all alright?”

Gloin blinks and looks at Bilbo strangely. “Well, mostly. The sickness is gone, if that is what you mean.”

“But the battle?” Bilbo repeats, “Did they make it through the battle unharmed?”

Gloin’s silence tells Bilbo all he needs to know. His chest grows tight and he manages to push himself up, though the world spins madly. “Gloin,” he calls out, “Please! Who was hurt?”

The dwarf wets his lips. “It’s bad – very bad. You won’t be able to heal them.”

Bilbo shudders. “Who?” he asks, again, more sharply than intended.

“Thorin and the princes. But Bilbo, you cannot – Bilbo, no!”

But Bilbo does not listen.

***

Bilbo’s heart quivers. He sucks in a short breath, feels his knees weakening. He knew, he knew what to expect all along. Gloin’s words warned him, he shouldn’t be so shocked. But the air in the royal tent is heavy with the smell of blood and decay.

Death, he realizes, this is what approaching death feels like.

Bilbo stumbles, his ankle throbbing nastily. His head still smarts, and he has to blink away the white spots appearing in his vision.

They’re still breathing. All three of them are still breathing, but for how long – the candles cast the room in a soft light, but that orange glow is all the color that remains in Thorin’s face. Kili lies to his left, limbs folded carefully over his chest, a sheer hiding the injuries done to his torso. A black shaft sticks from Fili’s shoulder. But before the poison can claim him, the maimed leg will.

Is this what he fought for? Is this the price they have to pay for giving in to the gold sickness? Is this where their journey ends?

And something in Bilbo’s chest seizes violently. It’s as if he’s back on the wall and Thorin is shouting with fury and hatred, and his heart is being torn apart. Only this is worse – this is the end, there will be no time after this. No reconsiderations, no apologies, no discussions. Death is all that remains, and though Bilbo’s throat is still bruised, this is not the end he has wished for.

He came here to help those dwarves reclaim their mountain. He did not come to see them die.

Bilbo swallows and steps over to Fili’s cot. Blood has stained his beard and lips red – the only splashes of color on a too-pale face. His expression is so relaxed, he could be sleeping, but his breathing is growing swallow and Bilbo knows time is running out.  
None of his dwarves will awaken before the end. It is probably a blessing, but to Bilbo this is wrong. This is not what he wanted.

And he can change it.

He may have promised not to give his life – and he knows, if he attempts to save even one of them, it will cost his life – but perhaps that is the better exchange. His talent has never been too useful in the grand scheme of things. But now it could change the future.

Now he can finally do something good.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. His ankle twinges with each step, and he leans heavily on Kili’s cot as he gets there. Sweat beads on his forehead – his own body is in poor condition, but that will not matter much longer.

It is a strangely liberating decision, Bilbo thinks as he stretches out his hand and reaches for Kili’s uncovered arm. Knowing that it will all end soon puts things in perspective – he is not sad, for example. Rather, he is satisfied. With Durins alive, this story will receive a fitting ending.  
The moment his hand touches Kili’s skin, his body seizes. Kili is like ice, already so far in death’s clutches that Bilbo barely even feels any life left within him. But there’s the wound to his leg, a cut on his side –

“Bilbo!” somebody screams, “What are you doing?!”

Pain explodes in his leg and Bilbo is violently torn away, his hand losing contact with Kili, and people are shouting, and the world blurs –

And then he is on the ground, with somebody propping him up, while somebody else touches his leg and it burns – He shrieks, and there are hands in his air, on his cheeks and somebody tells him to be calm, to take heart, that all we be well –

Wetness covers his cheeks, and Bilbo realizes he is crying.

“Oin! Get Oin here! Now!” Dwalin roars, and it is Bofur clutching Bilbo’s body while Nori is wrapping cords around his leg. Blood spreads over the ground, and Bofur hugs Bilbo close, muttering “What have you done, Bilbo what have you done?”

His leg throbs relentlessly and his vision keeps blurring, but Bilbo recalls that he has to go on. He has to heal Thorin and Fili too, and he should check on Kili. Bofur ought to know that it’s all alright, that this is how it is supposed to be.

“Get Oin! Gandalf! Anybody!” Dwalin shouts again, and Bilbo knows he should hurry.

He struggles to dislodge Bofur’s arm, but there is no strength in his movements and Bofur only holds him closer. “Be calm, Bilbo. We’ll … we’ll save you, I promise. You’ll be alright. Just, please, calm down.”

There are tears in Bofur’s eyes and Bilbo thinks he never meant to make his friend cry, but he can’t quite form the words. He also thinks that Bofur is lying and he should not – he cannot feel his leg any longer, but all he can see is red and chunks of flesh and bone and he doesn’t think hobbits are built to survive this.

“Dwalin, do you know anything?” Bofur shouts out as Dwalin stomps back inside. “Cut it – “

Nori hisses, “Anything except cutting it off!”

Dwalin growls under his breath.

“He’ll not survive it,” Nori continues and tugs the cord so tight Bilbo still feels it, and he needs to move, to do something –

“Let me go!” he gasps out, “Bofur, let go!”

“Bilbo, no!” Nori shouts, but Bilbo wriggles and kicks, “You’re only hurting yourself! Stop it! Bilbo!”

“Let me go!” the hobbit screams, “I need – I need to save them! Let me go!”

“Bilbo, Bilbo! Calm down, please! Please, just calm down!” Bofur shouts, clamping his arms tighter, and Dwalin has to help him, because there is desperation in Bilbo’s movements.

“Please!” Bilbo begs, “Please, just let me – “

“What is going on?”

It is barely more than a mumble. By all rights, they should never have heard it over the entire ruckus. But Bilbo falls silent, frozen in shock. Bofur’s eyes widen, Dwalin turns –

“Thorin!” he exclaims, “You’re awake!”

Bilbo blinks. Remembers phantom hands, remembers a broken heart. But so much warmth, friendship and affection. And Thorin – he wants Thorin to live, but the dwarf looks terribly pale and there is dark blood in the corner of his mouth.

“Thorin…” Bilbo whispers, and his vision blurs.

“Bilbo, stop it!” Bofur admonishes, but Bilbo does not hear him. Instead he stretches his hand out toward Thorin, not knowing if he seeks absolution or intends to heal him – there are so many shattered emotions in his chest, he barely knows what he feels.

“Bilbo?” Thorin replies and it visibly strains him to lift his head, “What are you – “

“Please….” Bilbo mutters and reaches.

“No!” Nori shouts and whisks Bilbo’s hand away.

“Let me –“ Bilbo gasps, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight. He can barely hold up his arm, and his vision is fading in and out. He is growing cold, too, and a strange hum has begun in his ears.

“Thorin, you need to stay down!” Dwalin orders sharply, and Bilbo sees that Thorin is reaching for him, too, and that there is fresh blood running from his mouth. And he remembers that Thorin’s chest was concave, that he needs to be healed –

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasps, “Bilbo, I …”

“You need to rest! Thorin, please, rest!” And Dwalin is begging, and Bilbo thinks that wouldn’t be necessary if they’d only let him up. He can heal Thorin – he can, but Bofur is not letting him go and he cannot move himself.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin chokes out, together with even more blood, “I … I was mad. I’m sorry. I never meant to – to treat you. I …”

He coughs and it brings forward black-tinted blood. Thorin’s chest rattles, and Bilbo wants to cry, because he can still save him, or at least try to –

“Please, forgive – “

“Thorin, stop talking!” Dwalin shouts, and his grip on Thorin’s arm is white-knuckled, and Nori is biting his lip.

“Please, let me help him!” Bilbo pleads, “Please, I can still – “

“Bilbo, no, don’t …” Bofur sobs, tightening his grip which is the only thing even holding Bilbo upright, “Don’t make me watch you die as well.”

“Please I…”

“Don’t,” Thorin gasps out, his chest heaving, “Don’t waste yourself on me, my burglar. I … I don’t…”

“Thorin!” Bilbo shrieks, “I… Let me help him!”

Nori is the one to close his eyes. Blood has soaked through his trousers and coat. The cord cannot be tied and tighter around Bilbo’s leg, and his fingers are stained red. “Let him,” he tells Bofur, “Just…”

Bofur makes a choked noise, and Dwalin’s eyes widen as he turns to glance down. Bilbo’s vision is blurry, but he knows his leg is in terrible condition. He knows he is dying and the dwarves are wasting time –

“Let him!” Nori shouts, and Bofur releases his grip. Bilbo falls forward, and Nori catches him, lifts him and settles him next to Thorin. It is warm, and Bilbo feels a strange sensation of peace trickle at him.

He takes a shuddering breath, and meets Thorin’s eyes.

“Bilbo, please,” Thorin whispers hoarsely, “Don’t do this for me. Don’t ---“

“I love you,” Bilbo tells him and takes Thorin’s hand.

***

Later, when the bodies are buried and the histories written, the story goes to say that Bilbo saved Kili, but afterward succumbed to his injuries and died in Thorin’s arms. Thorin, too, passed on before the sun rose on the following day, and Fili could not be saved either. For historians, it is a clear story, but those that were there remember despair, shattered dreams and broken hearts.

Dwalin remembers the soft glow of the air, the sensation of warmth creeping down his back – until it failed abruptly, and Bilbo had slumped forward. To their surprise, Thorin had caught him. Caught him and drawn that small body close to his chest, a shaky hand carding through dust-covered curls.

There had been no more words.

Three shaky breaths later Bilbo’s heart had stopped. And Thorin had looked up at them with blood running from both his nose and mouth and Dwalin had known that he, too, was dying. Bofur had wailed, then, and Nori had looked on with dead eyes and Dwalin had wondered why he was still alive –

And then they had finally realized that Kili was stirring. Bilbo may not have gotten a chance to even reach Fili, but he’d gone to Kili first and healed that injury and the young prince had lived. What followed had been chaos – healers running in and out of the tent. Dain was there, and then Gandalf and Bard and even Thranduil had come.

A mountain needed to be rebuilt, a treasure to be shared. Repayments made to men, a share for Dain and his people, too. Funerals to arrange and a coronation to celebrate. By that time the first caravans begun to arrive, and there was hardly ever a quiet moment.

But sometimes, Dwalin knows, he and all others of the company like to come here. It is not the actual tomb – but a smaller marker put up on the outside of the mountain. Because the last time they had been all together and whole was before they had stepped inside, and the marker is a reminder. A reminder for themselves of the truths that they do not want the share. And the world does not want to know them either.

The histories provide a simpler story of a courageous quest and a better ending. King Kili of Durin’s line crowned King of Erebor, Fili died a hero of a vicious battle and Thorin and Bilbo dead yet reconciled at the very end.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for reading this far. Thank you, too, for the comments and the kudos! (And I shall try to get better at replying)


	28. And we will keep you safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't take long for Bilbo to notice that Kili and Fili are acting a little too familiar with him. In the Shire this kind of behaviour would be improper, but they aren't in the Shire, and maybe Bilbo is just too sensitive. 
> 
> Or maybe not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wonderful prompt came courtesy of [Syxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syxx/pseuds/Syxx) and kept refusing to be wrestled into submission. I don't know how often I tried to write it - well, this is the result. 
> 
> As for other drabbles - I'm waiting to find time and for the trailer (where is it? I've heard rumors it's ready, but I've been hearing these since early June and there's still no trailer). Also, an absolutely off-topic question: I won a flight ticket to Chile in September (and it looks as if I'll be traveling alone) - any recommendations? 
> 
> Now, for the warnings:  
> Character Death  
> Non-con situations  
> Dark
> 
> If any of those make you feel uncomfortable, please skip this one. There is no happy ending, either.

Dwarves, according to the books available to Bilbo before he set out with the company of Thorin Oakenshield, are secretive, jealous and possessive. He finds they are also loyal friends (Bofur), skilled warriors (Dwalin) and noble at heart (Thorin).Their sense of humor may differ from his own (especially when food and dishes are sent flying and furniture is damaged), but they all can comport themselves if the situation requires it (as Thorin makes his grand speech before the master of Laketown).

In the end, they are perhaps not so difficult from any other sentient, feeling and breathing being. And operating under that assumption, Bilbo should have expected that under dwarves there are also those who display some of these stereotypical traits to a more disastrous end.

***

Once night falls, Bilbo settles a bit further from the fire – the ravine provides protection enough, he is worn out without exposing himself to Thorin’s glare any further and his entire body aches. He wishes he could imitate Gandalf and eschew the dwarves for one night – his nerves are frazzled, and he understands the dwarves’ are no better, yet Thorin seems to blame every mishap on Bilbo alone.

With a huff Bilbo tugs on the frayed sleeves of his jacket. The poor thing will not last much longer if it continues to be abused like this.

“Master Boggins,” a cheery voice cuts through his contemplations and Bilbo glances up to see Kili approach, a grin on his face, “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Bilbo, who has grown resigned at the mangling of his name, nods wearily. Dinner may have been small, but after everything he just isn’t hungry any longer. Kili tilts his head, gives Bilbo a long look, and then drops down next to him with a sigh.

“You don’t look too good,” Kili says, and leans closer.

Bilbo automatically leans back, and ends up pressed up against a boulder. “Well, it was a rather exhausting day,” Bilbo replies evenly, if a little disoriented at the close proximity, “Everybody is fairly tired, I suppose.”

And truly, he’d rather have everybody settle down and sleep.

Kili chuckles, and doesn’t lean back. He remains too close for comfort, but Bilbo doesn’t think he notices. “It really was, wasn’t it?” Kili contemplates, “All that running around – did you see how Dwalin took out that warg?”

His eyes glitter with a sense of excitement that Bilbo does not think a becoming reaction to their close brush with death. Bilbo shifts uneasily. “With all respect to his skills, I do believe we might have been in trouble had Gandalf not found this path.”

Kili shrugs. “Who knows,” he says easily, “Battles have been won against steeper odds. But anyhow, are you alright? I didn’t get to ask earlier, but it looked as if the trolls did quite a number on you.”

Kili leans forward again, and there is only an arm’s length left separating their faces. Bilbo feels himself flush, but swallows his discomfort.

“I’m quite fine,” he says and thinks that now is a good time to stand and walk away. Kili is not conscious of what he is doing, but Bilbo’s strained nerves cannot take anymore.

As he makes to rise, a hand grabs his arm and forces him back down. Bilbo stutters, but the grip is unforgiving and pulls him back down. Kili is studying him in earnest, eyes following the outline of Bilbo’s body underneath his worn clothes. “Are you sure? I’d feel better if you let me check – maybe you broke something and didn’t notice….”

There is an odd glitter to his eyes – perhaps from the strange atmosphere of this magical path. Starlight reflects oddly of the stone walls protecting it – he noticed that before. But Bilbo’s heart is pounding, and he has to tell himself not to panic. Kili means well, even if Bilbo thinks he is far too close.

“I believe I would know…” he stammers, though Kili only frowns. The young dwarf takes hold of Bilbo’s other arm as well, not minding the hitched breath or the stiffness of the body as he slowly presses Bilbo to lie back against the boulder.

“Really, Kili,” Bilbo protests, because this is going too far, “I’m fine, I – “

Kili raises his head and looks at Bilbo with large, sad eyes. “Maybe you are,” he says, “But I’ve seen others say the same – and they were dead the next day because they never noticed they were hurt. So please, let me settle my mind.”

And Bilbo finds there is nothing he can say. What is his discomfort against these very valid concerns? He bites down on his lip and nods.

“Thank you.” Kili tugs the jacket off Bilbo’s shoulders and halfway down his arms and leaves it there. Bilbo would protest, because effectively this pins his arms uselessly to his sides, but his heart is in his throat already and he can’t speak.

Humming, Kili unbuttons first his waistcoat and then untucks his shirt – and propriety tells Bilbo to start screaming, now. He bites his tongue, though, because Kili sighs in relief and Bilbo can see the tension draining from his shoulders.

The hands that ghost over his bruised flesh are gentle and careful. At times, the touch feels more like a caress, and the hair on Bilbo’s arms stands. He can’t help that his breath hitches as Kili traces the outline of his ribs. By Shire standards it’s all highly improper, and Bilbo really thinks he needs to stop this as Kili’s hands wander lower.

And then they’re suddenly gripping his hips, and Bilbo can’t help the strangled squeak that escapes his throat.

Kili chuckles and retracts his hands. “Nothing broken,” he proclaims, “But you’ll be stiff for a while.”

***

In Rivendell, it is Fili who glues himself to Bilbo’s. He approaches the hobbit, inquiring after his health and apologizing for the trolls – and then proceeds to follow Bilbo through the gardens and to the library.

At first the hobbit is confused – the blond prince had never given an indication that he was interested in the hobbit, unlike Kili who has been seeking out Bilbo’s company with increasing frequency. But Fili is good company. He tells Bilbo about the dwarves’ lives in the Ered Luin, old tales of Durin and eventually also of his uncle, and how Erebor has always been dear to him. Bilbo’s mind is still stuttering at the realization that Kili and Fili are Thorin’s nephews, so he forgets to censor himself for a moment.

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” he tells Fili with a sigh, watching the sunlight cast beautiful patterns on the tiled floor.

Fili shrugs, toying with an apple. “He just generally needs a long time to warm up to anybody – used to terrify Ori, really, so don’t think too much on it. Anyhow, Kili and I just like you more than enough.”

“Err… thank you?” he stutters in response, and immediately the blood rushes to his face. He has been on the road for too long already, “I mean, I’m honored, really – I like you, too. I mean, you are good companions, you ...”

Fili just throws his head back, laughs and slings an arm around his shoulder, dragging Bilbo practically onto his lap. “I know what you mean, Bilbo. We wouldn’t be getting you into trouble as much, otherwise.”

Bilbo meanwhile has a mouth full of fur, and is pressed uncomfortably against a hard dwarvish chest. But while the hold it too tight for comfort, he feels strangely warm. And tentatively replies by trying to put an arm around Fili, too (not that his arm reaches far beyond Fili’s side, but the attempt will have to suffice).

***

It turns out that Rivendell is no fluke. All the way up the mountains Bilbo finds himself in the company of at least one prince at all times. And it’s nice, since the rest of the company remains lukewarm in regards to his presence.

But, it turns out, either dwarves in general or Kili and Fili in particular have a strange notion of personal space. He doesn’t mind an arm slung over his shoulder, however he is not certain if he approves of Fili’s new habit of wrapping his arm around his waist.

Bilbo knows he’s small and weak compared to the dwarves, though he could live without demonstrations. At one point Fili grips him by the waist and simply lifts him up a particularly difficult slope.

That night, Bilbo addresses the matter. “Not that I don’t appreciate what you are doing,” he tells the brothers as they wait for the stew to be done. Night is falling fast- already, the sky over the mountains tops is barely tinted orange in the west. To the east, the first stars are visible.

“I appreciate it – just, maybe, the next time, let me give it a go first? I’m feeling already pretty useless as it is,” he says and adds a small, self-depreciating chuckle to his words.

However, Fili’s lips barely twitch upward, while Kili abruptly leans forward and gently touches Bilbo’s cheek, concern shining in his eyes. The hobbit flushes instantly, and Kili tilts his head. “We’re just looking out for you,” he says and strokes the soft skin underneath his palm.

“We don’t want anything to happen to you, Bilbo,” Fili affirms, just as serious as his brother, and his hand finds Bilbo’s knee, “Apologies if we have made you uncomfortable – but the mountains are harsh and dangerous.”

“And you’re just so small and soft,” Kili adds, and he is close enough that Bilbo can feel his breath tickle his skin.

“Yes, yes,” he replies, and shuffles in place, trying to dislodge Kili’s hand – including that thumb that is coming too close to his lips, “I know I’m not suited for these … adventures. But just let me give it a try the next time – you’re free to do whatever you like if you feel I’m holding the company up, however.”

And while Kili takes his hand away after a moment, Fili’s hand lingers just above his knee until the stew is done. This night, as all the nights before, the two keep Bilbo occupied – not that he minds, they are grand company once they aren’t occupying his personal bubble. But he has been wanting to speak with Bofur again, though as the hour grows later and later he realizes nothing except sheer rudeness will get him away.

So Bilbo remains sitting with Fili and Kili, laughing at their anecdotes and trying not to mind the odd hand that touches his hair, leg or elbow. And really, Bilbo has grown up with many cousins and not all of them shared Bilbo’s concept of personal space. Fili and Kili are no different.

As Thorin orders the company to sleep, the brothers lie down to Bilbo’s left and right. And he resigns himself to another night with flailing limbs, elbows and kneecaps in places where they ought not be – but a warm night on these cold mountains, still.

***

As the journey continues, however, Bilbo begins to wonder. One morning he wakes to find Kili has thrown a leg over his hip and what is poking Bilbo’s lower back is certainly not a sword pommel. He flushes and disentangles himself in a hurry. The morning air is chilly, the stars still visible in the western sky. It’s easy to convince himself that this is just a natural reaction.

In the Shire, though, the possessiveness the two princes are displaying could easily be mistaken for a clumsy attempt to court. Their touches, too, would be viewed in that context – a tender touch to the cheek, a tousling of the hair like Fili likes to do – certainly, a Shire courting is also accompanied by a declaration of intent, but Bilbo has seen enough relationships develop to wonder at the princes’ actions.

Then again, this isn’t the Shire and the princes are dwarves, not hobbits.  But perhaps he should inform them anyway.

Especially when, after Thorin has let go of Bilbo on top of the Carrock, Kili steps forward and gathers the hobbit in his own arms rather possessively. “Don’t hog him, uncle,” he says, looking like a petulant nine-year old, “That’s our hobbit.”

The company bursts into laughter and Fili joins in the hug. Bilbo’s feet aren’t touching the ground any longer. He tries to bat their hands away, or rather flails ineffectively with the way his arms are pinned to his sides – and then resigns himself to being treated like a toy for the rest of the evening.

***

Bilbo thoroughly enjoys their too-short stay at Beorn’s abode. He sleeps long, eats his fill, and then wanders through the gardens, basking in the warm late-summer sun. Around him, the landscape brims with life, and he finds a patch of moss to sit upon, which is both dry and soft.

Beyond the trees and bushes that frame Beorn’s lands, the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains rise, glittering under a cloudless blue sky. Sometimes, when the air had been especially clear, he had spied them, dusty silhouettes against the horizon beyond the Shire’s fields.

Now they are near, though the thought that he crossed them remains mind-boggling.

“Bilbo,” a cheerful voice cuts through his contemplations, “What are you doing here?”

Bilbo turns to smile at Kili. “Enjoying the sunlight,” he replies, “Though none of you seem to particularly do that.”

Kili squints. “No, we dwarves like the inside of our mountains. This light – it’s a bit too bright, and we don’t see too well by it.”

Then he drops down next to Bilbo. “Though I have to admit, the breeze is nice.”

“Isn’t it?” Bilbo asks and they fall silent. It’s quite relaxed, to just sit like this and listen to the rustling of the leaves and the grass, the songs of the birds and the bees’ humming.

After a moment, a shadow falls across Bilbo’s face, and he opens his eyes just to see Kili lean over him. He freezes, because he hasn’t even noticed the young dwarf coming closer, and then Kili tilts his head down and his lips meet Bilbo’s.

It’s a short, soft contact – but far too deliberate to be anything but a kiss.

Bilbo sputters, sits up, and makes to wipe his lips – this is preposterous, what on earth is Kili thinking he is doing? This is – Or does he mean this after all? Has Bilbo not just been seeing specters?

Kili is bent over laughing. “Your face,” he gasps out between bouts of breathless laughter, “Your face, Bilbo!”

Bilbo relaxes. So it was just teasing, he tells himself.

***

Bilbo might have felt annoyed at the continuing closeness of the princes and even hassled at times. Yet two days into Mirkwood, he is grateful for their company. He struggles to adjust his eyes to the permanent gloom, and more than once Fili keeps him from tripping over gnarled roots.

Kili keeps his bow in his hands at all times now. Glowing eyes appear every night, watching them without ever revealing themselves or their intention, and nobody finds sleep for very long. Bilbo doesn’t protest when Fili drags him into his lap in the evenings now. He doesn’t mind being squeezed to an inch of his life in his sleep by Kili either.

The touches grow even more intimate – a hand that slips down the collar of his shirt, lips ghosting across the junction of his neck and shoulder during the night. One night he wakes to something touching his lips – leaves, perhaps? – but when he tries to brush the sensation away he finds his wrists pinned to the ground and his body fixed in place by a heavy weight on his hips.

For a moment his conscious struggles to return. Then a soft hand brushes through his hair and a familiar voice whispers “Hush, it’s alright. Just go back to sleep, Bilbo. It’s not morning yet.”

And when morning dawns he thinks he must have dreamt it. Hasn’t Gandalf warned them of the spells and illusions of Mirkwood? Bilbo’s head feels heavy and muddled, and he wishes for a breath of fresh air or a ray of sunlight. But their shadowed path stretches on and on. Their stocks begin to thin, and there is no end of the forest in sight.

***

The dungeons of Thranduil’s halls are not better. Bilbo’s body feels strained beyond its limits, and he can see the outline of his ribs even through his shirt. His hands have grown bony, but it’s the fuzziness of his mind that makes the halls even more difficult to bear.

Where Mirkwood was gloomy and hallucinogetic, the enchantment Bilbo is under is different. He knows that the ring is at fault – but it is the one thing that keeps him invisible to the elves and dares not take it off. A blurry vision devoid of color is a small price to pay, he tells himself.

Still, his sense of time is completely gone by the time he manages to find the dungeons.

“Hello?” he softly calls out. There are no guards nearby, and judging by the dim light it probably is in the middle of the night.

“Bilbo?” a voice asks to his left, and the hobbit is so relieved his knees give out. He stumbles and just barely manages to catch himself against the iron bars of the cell.

“Bilbo?” the question comes again, more urgent this time, “Are you here?”

And that is Fili who has approached the bars and is squinting outside. He is pale, but unharmed and the gauntness of his face has waned and Bilbo feels faint as his worries evaporate.

“Yes, yes,” he stutters and belatedly remembers to take off the ring.

The world slams back into focus, and his blood rushes in his ears and suddenly there are hands pulling on his arms and shoulders, and Fili calling is name and other voices are joining the mix. His head spins and Bilbo clings to the bars while his legs refuse to cooperate,.

He doesn’t notice how he is turned over, but suddenly there is a hand gripping his hair and his face is pressed against the bars – and another pair of lips against his own.

Bilbo’s eyes fly open, and he manages a squeak, though the grip on the back of his head is iron and he couldn’t break from it if he wanted. Weak as he feels, his struggles are perhaps rather half-hearted as well. A part of him soaks in the warmth of that touch, desperate for any feeling after lingering in the strange half-world of invisibility for so long.

Then Fili lets go, and Bilbo manages to catch his breath. After that, he bears the hugs and shoulder pats with grace, and even lets Kili cling to him for what feels too long. And after he has broken them out and survived that mad ride down the river he gladly lets them all fuss over him as he finally allows his body to succumb to the lingering weakness.

***

Or course, when they reach Laketown Bilbo is laid up with a bad cold and out of his mind with fever for the most of it. He has blurry memories of shapes, voices and people moving around him, of hands on his face and somebody caressing his hair.

And Bilbo would doubt that those were anything but a hallucination, had he not come awake on day to Kili softly stroking his hair, humming under his breath. Bilbo can’t help it, he tenses, when he realizes that his upper body rests on Kili’s lap – this is too close, too personal.

“Ah, you’re awake, Bilbo,” says somebody else, and Bilbo glances over to see Fili sitting on a chair right next to Kili.

“That’s good. We were getting worried,” Fili says, and Kili does not stop playing with Bilbo’s hair. Rather, the second arm that wraps around Bilbo’s chest is keeping him fixed in place. It’s protective and warm and everything good and nice – but Bilbo, who can’t recall anybody but his parents holding him back when he was a child – is not sure if he’s comfortable.

He tries to shift, but Kili’s hold is rather unforgiving.

“Are you feeling better then?” Fili asks.

“Yes,” Bilbo says, or tries to. What emerges is a sad croak, and his throat hurts as if it had been scraped with sandpaper.

“Have some tea,” Fili suggests, “Kili, let Bilbo sit up.”

However, instead of releasing Bilbo, Kili changes his hold so he can draw the hobbit closer and prop him up against his chest. It’s an odd sensation to Bilbo – he can feel the heat of Kili’s skin through the thin fabric of their shirts, and it makes a blush spread across his cheeks.

“That is not neces –“, he begins, coughs, and tries to move away. But Kili has a hold on his upper arms, and Bilbo finds he is practically helpless. Then Fili returns with the tea and does not hand the cup over to Bilbo either.

“Really, you, stop this!” Bilbo protests hoarsely, because the joke is going a little too far right now. He doesn’t mind their usual excursions into this kind of playfulness, can perhaps somewhere understand the strange fascination – after all, there are probably not many dwarves Kili can hold down without breaking a sweat – but the atmosphere is too charged, too different, and every little touch sends sparks down his spine.

“Ah, don’t worry, Bilbo,” Fili says and holds the tea cup to Bilbo’s lips, “We’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you are fine.”

And he can’t protest, not when Fili is tipping the cup forward, and Bilbo has no choice but to swallow or choke. Some liquid spills, and some still goes down wrong, and before he knows it, he is coughing and spluttering, and squirming in Kili’s lap.

When his vision clears, something is touching his chin, and lips, and it takes Bilbo one long moment to realize that this is not a washcloth, but Fili’s tongue.

He squeaks, and Kili chuckles and his breath caresses the tip of Bilbo’s ear, and it tickles. Bilbo gasps and flinches, and Fili doesn’t move away, and he should say something, should protest, but there is a spark of excitement somewhere in his belly, though his addled mind still is sure this is no good idea.

Then Fili dives in for a real kiss, knocking Bilbo’s head back against Kili’s chest. He tries to turn his head away, but Fili reaches up to grasp his chin, holding him firmly in place. His heart pounds, and panic wells up in his chest.

A tongue invades his mouth, and he can't breathe and Kili's hold on his upper arms is unforgiving, and he cannot get away. Blackness beckons at the edge of his vision, as a shudder runs down his spine. He squirms, and somebody is chuckling, but he cannot see who from his tunneling sight.

“Just let us take care of you,” Kili whispers into his ear, “It will be good, I promise.”

And Bilbo is so close to giving in, to just letting things happen. Then a hand slips into his pants.

His body jerks up and stiffens, and he a hoarse scream escapes his throat. Suddenly his heart is racing and there is cold sweat on his back, and what was uncomfortable has become terrifying.

“Shhh, calm down,” Fili whispers, but the hand is still there, stroking the soft skin on his hip, and Bilbo wants it gone, gone, gone.

“Don’t – “ he shrieks, and his voice gives out and lips find his and swallow the words he can’t even speak. He tries to free himself from the iron grip on his arms, and shift to get away from that hand that comes ever closer to his private parts, and his heart is pounding frantically.

This can’t be happening, is the last clear thought Bilbo has before everything dissolves into a nightmare.

***

The following days Bilbo spends in a daze. His body feels sore and his head swims – the fever-induced delirium grants him few breaks. He flinches when hands touch his body, a blurry memory of an uninvited touch lingering, though Bilbo is less and less certain it really happened.

As he eventually begins to recover, the company treats him with utmost care – there is always a steaming cup of tea nearby and he does not lack for books or blankets either. Fili and Kili do keep their distance, and Bilbo thinks he might have overreacted. After all, back in Mirkwood and with the fever, he wasn’t thinking straight – he probably overreacted to a display of kindness.

Still, he keeps flinching at a simple touch all the way until they reach Erebor.

***

And that is where things turn sour.

First they unleash a dragon upon Laketown. Then Bilbo watches his friends succumb to madness. There is a moment when he wishes Fili and Kili would fixate on him the way he believes they did – it would be better than them eyeing the gold with unconcealed avarice.

Eventually Bilbo acts. Even though he knows what it will bring about.

***

"Descendant of rats!" Thorin roars, "Traitor! I will throw you to the rocks!"

Before Bilbo can blink, Thorin bears down on him; two rough hands close around his neck, and then he's dragged off his feet, his airway abruptly shut off. Bilbo chokes, terrified at the pressure, the sheer, mindless rage in Thorin's eyes, and then he sees the edge of the wall, and no, Thorin cannot be doing this, this must be a nightmare, no -

He struggles, and is only jerked harshly. His heart leaps into his throat, the edge too close, too close - he forgets he can't breathe, tires to dig his feet in - Thorin cannot do this, not after everything, not matter how angry -

But he is flung over the edge, and only jerked back by the firm grip Thorin retains on his throat. People are yelling, Bilbo doesn't hear it, blindly clinging to the arm that chokes him, feet dangling over the drop.

"Thorin!" Fili shouts, and adds something in Khuzdul. Bilbo gasps for air, feet swinging freely, but he can see the fury in Thorin's eyes receding, replaced by something darker.

Kili nods along, and Bilbo is terrified Thorin will still drop him. He doesn't want to die, not here, not at the hands of a mad king. He wants to go home, see his garden, feel the warmth of the sun -

"Very well," Thorin snorts, and throws Bilbo down. The hobbit lands on the wall, roughly, and it takes him far too long to regain his bearings, gasping for air, trembling all over.

"He's yours," he tells somebody, and that is when Bilbo realizes Fili and Kili are standing behind him. His heart jumps, just as a hand settles on his shoulder.

This isn't good, he thinks, but he's already being pulled up. Kili and Fili, they may have saved his life, but after Laketown - panic rises in his chest. Hands on sensitive skin, uninvited touches – a choked scream wells up in his throat. He looks up wildly, to see the armies of men and elves disappearing from view, Gandalf with them.

If those two take him -

"No," Bilbo gasps out, "No, don't! Let me go, please!" He squirms, but the two princes have a firm hold on him, dragging him back into the mountain. The blue sky disappears, and he sees Thorin turn to address the armies.

They cannot mean to leave him here.

"No!" Bilbo screams, "No! Help me! Gand - "

Something hard strikes the back of his head, and the world grows dark.

***

When Bilbo comes to, he rests on something soft. His head is pounding, and his throat terribly dry. But as he tries to sit up, he is jerked back at his wrists. Metal rings, and his head bounces against a hard pillow, as his thoughts race.

Fili and Kili - after that terrible moment on the wall - so he is in Erebor, after all.

Bilbo heart clenches and despair fills his chest. He should have screamed earlier. Or enraged Thorin - made the king drop him. Death - no, he wants to live, to go home, to leave this behind - but only fear awaits here.

He bites down on his lower lip, and forces himself to open his eyes. Wherever he is, at last for the moment he seems to be alone. No mocking voices, wandering hands - he shudders.

The chamber is luxurious, with intricate mosaics decorating the walls and the ceiling. He rests on what seems to be a bed, dark furs tickling his skin. At least he is not naked - though somebody did change his clothes to a simple white tunic, and nothing beneath.

Heat creeps up his cheeks - why do they insist on humiliating him so? Is this punishment?

Golden manacles inlaid with precious stones encircle his wrists, chains holding them on both sides of his head. Bilbo tugs, but there is little give. He will not escape this on his own – his chest tightens.

“Bilbo, calm down!”

The hobbit flinches violently. In his panic he failed to hear the door open and all of a sudden he sees Fili hurrying towards him. With a shriek he tries to pull back, but only manages to strain his shoulder.

“Bilbo!” Fili exclaims, and reaches out, and Bilbo’s vision is tunneling.

“You have to calm down,” Fili tells him gently, “Just relax. Nothing is going to happen to you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

And his treacherous body believes the prince. Bilbo’s heart slows down, though the tightness in his chest remains.

“That’s alright,” Fili murmurs, and his hand finds Bilbo’s cheek, “Just relax.”

The hobbit’s eyes widen at the touch. He tries to move away, but the chains hold his arms over his head, and he can’t pull his legs to his body either. There’s no way to escape those hands, and his heart starts pounding again.

“Why are you doing this?” he rasps, “Why are you – “

“This?” Fili gestures at the room, and chuckles, “Just for safety. We can’t risk losing you, you know. And you’re so good at slipping away, too – but the mountain is dangerous, and we’d rather know you’re safe.”

“But you – “ Bilbo rattles the chains. He wants to protest, say this isn’t necessary – he wants them off and to run, run, run. He should have gotten away the first time Kili got too close. Should have picked up the signs – shouldn’t have allowed for teasing touches and excused everything as faulty memory.

“We’re afraid you’ll leave us, Bilbo,” Fili continues, and there is an eerie light to his eyes. Bilbo recognizes that light, has seen the intent before. In Fili’s eyes as well as in Kili’s and ignored it – and he is paying the prize.

“You don’t need to worry about uncle,” Fili says, “He will not harm you. It was … unfortunate what you did, but he understands. You’re ours.”

Bilbo grows cold. If Thorin is in on it – if the entire company is in on this –

He remembers them watching as the princes dragged him inside, watching as he screamed for help and did nothing.

Or course they know. Or course they agree. Of course they won’t come to save him.

“Fili, please, please,” Bilbo stammers and he doesn’t care that he’s begging, “Please, I’ll stay, but please, let me go!”

Fili laughs and pets Bilbo’s hair instead. “Don’t worry,” he tells the hobbit and leans closer, “We’ll take good care of you. Very good care.”

“Fili, you must – “

“Fili!” Kili exclaims and rushes into the chamber, “Fili, you need to come! Thorin says – oh, Bilbo, you’re awake!”

The younger prince beams, and doesn’t even seem to register the growing terror on Bilbo’s face. “That’s great! You were asleep for so long, we were beginning to get worried! How do you like the room? We wanted to make it ours – it has a hot spring behind that door as well. Great, isn’t it? And there is a – “

“Kili,” Fili interrupts the chatter, “You said Thorin wanted me?”

“Oh, yes,” Kili says and grows solemn. Bilbo blinks – the air has changed, he thinks. He hadn’t realized it – but Kili is pale, and his fingers tremble. The joy then was a distraction.

“Yes, well, he got a letter from Dain,” Kili says, “There is … Orcs are coming. An entire army of them, the letter says. Dain is going to join forces with Bard and Thranduil and Thorin – “

“Isn’t going to be very happy with it,” Fili concludes and straightens, fingers abandoning Bilbo’s hair. “Are there really so many?”

Kili shrugs helplessly, “I don’t know. They were just about to discuss it, but it seems so. They say there’ll be a battle.”

Bilbo’s heart trembles.

“When?” Fili asks and climbs to his feet.

Kili sighs. “If I overheard it correctly – tonight.”

“Then we need to go,” Fili announces and strides away.

“Hey,” Bilbo calls before they can make it out of the room, “Are you just going to leave me here?” His voice hitches hysterically, “Are you just going to leave?”

“Ah, now, Bilbo,” Kili begins, but Fili speaks over him. “You’ll be safest here, Bilbo. If there is a battle, you’ll be protected.”

“But!” Bilbo exclaims and pulls on his chains, rattling them, “Those – “

“You’ll be safe,” Fili announces.

And then they’re gone.

*** 

“We will not survive, will we?” Kili asks. Sweat and blood have pasted his hair to his face, and his chest heaves. Fili casts a weary glance around – the night is alight with blazing fires and the roar of battle. Blood stains the ground and broken bodies cover are everywhere.

He does not look too closely – there must be familiar faces among them.

Still, the orcs keep coming without fear or faltering. Their numbers do not lessen, while Fili does not know when he has last seen a member of their company. Unfamiliar elves fighting their way through enemy lines, grace abandoned for efficiency. Men dying next to his feet. A severed arm clad in dwarven armor.

“Fili?” Kili repeats, and now there is a note of anxiety in his voice.

Fili takes a deep breath. “No,” he answers softly. Too calm for what he is speaking of, but he cannot feel upset when he cannot see any other outcome, “No, I don’t think we will.”

Kili takes an uneasy gulp of air. They both flinch when a roar goes up behind them, but an arrow takes care of the goblin that is not even close. For the moment battle has left them – but it will find them again, as it has found all the others.

Laketown’s ruins are burning again. Even the bare slopes or Erebor have been set ablaze.

This is what the end looks like, Fili thinks.

This is –

He doesn’t hear the arrow. Doesn’t even notice it.

Only when Kili screams his name and he realizes he is kneeling and his body is cold he finally understands that something is wrong. A dull roar fills his ears, and suddenly he is looking at the sky, then Kili again. Kili’s features twist with desperation –

“No, Fili! No, stay with me! Fili! FILI!”

He is probably screaming but it’s so silent Fili barely even hears it. There is a river rushing by so close to his ear and his body is too heavy to move any further. It’s not unpleasant – the black flickering at the edges of his vision beckons and the tremors in his fingers have ceased.

This is peaceful, he thinks.

And this is probably it, too, he realizes. For a moment there is a spark – he could fight, could cling on, struggle – but there is a plain filled with enemies where only pain and horror await. And perhaps, perhaps if he closes his eyes now, does not fight any further, perhaps the fates will spare his brother.

*** 

“No, no, no, nononono, FILI!” Kili shouts as the body in his arms falls slack. Blood stains the corner of his brother’s mouth, and much more the ground beneath him. The black shaft of an arrow still stick out of Fili’s back.

But the body in his arms is utterly still.

This can’t be happening, Kili thinks, this cannot be real. His breath hitches, and he gives his brother a shake.

“Fili,” he gasps, “Fili!” Stop joking, he wants to add, get up and move. Get up and I’ll even let you braid my hair tomorrow. Tomorrow and any other day you wish for. Just, please, wake up.

“Please…”

How could this happen? After all they have been through – certainly, the odds are against them, but …

But …

“Please, Fili,” Kili whispers. His heart flutters in his chest. He cannot breathe – cannot think. Beneath it all, he can feel the undeniable, gruesome truth. But it hasn’t taken shape yet, perhaps it can be denied, though deep down he knows.

Knows that …

“Fili, please, please,” Kili’s fingers dig into his brother’s armored shirt, “Please. Please!”

He bows his head. Squeezes his eyes shut – maybe he can wake up now? Let the nightmare end – let it all –

“Kili, watch out!” somebody shouts, and as Kili jerks his head up he only sees the severed head of an orc fly past him, bounce of the ground and roll away.

“Kili, you alright?” And that’s Bofur wielding a crude sword instead of his mattock with bloodstains covering the front of his overcoat.

Kili gasps for air, cannot form words or even thoughts.

“Kili?” Bofur asks, and then his eyes catch sight of the person Kili is bowed over. “Kili, is that ---“

A low, desperate sound escapes Kili’s throat.

“Oh Mahal,” Bofur whispers and sinks to his knees next to Kili. He reaches out, but Kili’s first instinct is to clutch Fili’s body to himself – this is his brother, and he will wake up and then –

“Kili, let me,” Bofur asks, gently and somehow his voice penetrates the desperation fogging Kili’s mind, “Just … I’m sorry.”

Fili’s face is now whiter than it ever was. The blood on the corner of his mouth is drying, the lips are tinted blue. His eyes are closed, and he does look at peace.

And there is no denying his fate any longer.

Before Kili can break down, Bofur drags him back. “Kili,” he says, and grabs him by the shoulders, “Kili, look at me! Kili!”

The young prince flinches and eventually manages to focus his gaze on Bofur. His entire body is trembling and he wonders when he will wake up, or when this will end – shouldn’t it all fade away now? How can he be expected to go on?

“Kili, you need to get away from here,” Bofur tells him, “I’m sorry, I promise you I’ll see to it that your brother’s left alone – but you need to get away. Take Bilbo and run somewhere safe!”

A horn blows close by.

It’s an orcish horn.

“Run!” Bofur yells and pushes Kili, “Now!”

*** 

A clatter in the corridor causes Bilbo to flinch. The chains rattle, but he barely notices the pain from his chafed wrists as the noises come closer and closer. 

Has the battle ended? Who is coming – do they know he’s here? Does he dare to shout?

Before Bilbo has a chance to decide the door flies open and Kili stumbles in. He’s out of sorts, bloodied and a mad fire fills his eyes. Bilbo jerks back, but the chains don’t allow him to move, keeping him stretched-out and defenseless on the bed.

“Bilbo,” Kili mutters, “Bilbo, I … “

He sways, and Bilbo sees that he’s bleeding from a head wound.

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” Kili says, and fumbles for a knife, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Bilbo’s heart races, though suddenly he can’t breathe. “Kili,” he stammers, “Kili! Kili, what is –“

“So sorry,” Kili repeats and takes a step forward. His movements are uneven, and he is completely out of sorts, and Bilbo feels terrified – this is worse than before the battle, worse even than Thorin’s rage.

“I … we wanted to protect you,” Kili murmurs, and a ghost of a deranged smile crosses his face, “Wanted to take care of you. Have you with us - always with us.”

“Kili,” Bilbo is inching his body as far away from the dwarves’ side of the bed as the chains allow. The knife glints eerily in the dim light, and Bilbo has never been so afraid.

“It was all going to be so good,” Kili announces with a wave of his arm. The movement shoves him off balance, and he has to take a step back, and Bilbo manages to suck in a breath.

“Kili, what is happening?” he asks and can’t help if his voice squeaks, “Kili, please, what is happening?”

But the young prince shakes his head. Under the blood and grime his face is frighteningly pale and haunted, and Fili isn’t here and Bilbo knows that this is wrong, that this should not be happening –

“So good,” Kili repeats, “I’m sorry.”

And he looks at the knife in his hand and back at Bilbo, and the hobbit’s eyes widen.

“I’ll … I’ll make it alright, Bilbo,” Kili says, “I … sorry, Fili … can’t be here, but … I’ll take care of this. I won’t … leave you alone. Won’t … abandon you.”

“Kili?” Bilbo asks, “Kili, what are you – “

“You’ll be with us,” Kili says and that calm, deranged light is back in his eyes, “Always. I promise. Just, just… be calm, Bilbo.”

“No! Kili! Kili! What are you doing?” Bilbo shouts, and he sees that the knife is raised, and his heart is racing and this cannot be truly happening.

“It’ll be fine,” Kili whispers.

And moves.

“No, Kili, no, no, Ki ---“

*** 

“Then they’re all accounted for?” Dori asks, wearily. His arm is in a sling and a bandage wrapped around his head, but he can still walk. 

Being alive on this dreary morning is already close to a miracle, Balin thinks.

Those of the company that survived and can walk have gathered here. Nori is laid up with a leg broken in three places and Bifur has yet to wake from a blow to his head. Dwalin, too, remains unconscious – but perhaps this is for the better. Balin knows the conclusion of this battle will break his brother’s heart.

If possible he would like to spare him the sight of those three, sheet-covered bodies laid out in a luxurious tent near the edge of camp. The princes were too young to die – not like this, not as sacrifices for a home they did not know and a battle they could not escape.

Thorin’s death, too, is –

“Bilbo,” Ori mutters, and his face looks terribly haunted, “Does anybody know what became of him?”

And there’s a bleak silence because in the light of this terribly morning they all know that they have done wrong by their burglar. Condemning him was wrong, he was right, they’d been blinded by madness.

“They took him into the mountain, didn’t they?” Dori says. Carefully, as if a single wrong word might shatter the whole world around them. 

“They – “ Bofur shakes his head and abruptly gets up. He’s white, bites his lip, but there is determination written across his face. “I’ll look for him!” 

***

"Bilbo!" Bofur shouts as he tears down the corridor, his heart pounding wildly, "Bilbo!"

The mountain is silent, and Bofur tries desperately to subdue the panic welling up in his chest. His leg aches, and the wound on his shoulder smarts with every move, but he cannot allow Bilbo to be here one moment longer.

Not when they already have wronged him so terribly. Bofur remembers that pale, tear-stained face all too clearly. And nobody, nobody had thought anything wrong with treating him so.

He turns into the final corridor, wide and splendid even underneath layers of dust and debris. Last time he saw their hobbit, he had been carried this way by the princes. "Bilbo!"

But no sound greets him, and Bofur does not allow himself to think on it. Instead he throws himself against sturdy, gold-inlaid door of the princes’ quarters, pushing it almost off its hinges. He stumbles inside, blinks -

And freezes.

His heart stops. He forgets to breathe - but it does not matter. Nothing matters, not now, not when he views this tableau of horror. Not when he has to realize that they failed. Completely and utterly failed.

The blood has dried and turned to a rusty shade. There isn’t that much of it – hardly any on the floor – but it’s highly visible on the white sheets and the white tunic Bilbo is dressed in.

Bofur sucks in a shaky breath. Takes a stumbling step forward. And has to stop.

There is no hurry. The body on the bed is clearly dead – the exposed skin is as white as the sheets are, and there is a small dagger buried in their burglar’s chest.

And Bofur feels how the last bit of hope in his chest flickers and dies. It’s – well, he knows he should not have been hoping anyway. He was there when Thorin told Fili and Kili they could do with Bilbo as they wished.

He stood by and watched as they dragged the hobbit away, while Bilbo screamed and pleaded. Stood by and did nothing, like they all did. The battle and its aftermath have been a terrible wake up call, and they’d all hoped – hoped so desperately to find the hobbit, to at least apologies and offer amends.

But that is no longer possible.

Their hobbit is as dead as the king and his nephews.

And while this is cruel, it is not the climax of horrors. Bofur presses a hand against his mouth as his stomach twists. He recognizes the dagger, wishes he doesn’t – so many died through orcs and goblins – but this is a dwarven dagger.

Bearing the seal of the line of Durin. But Bofur does not need to see the seal – he has seen Fili wield this dagger several times through their journey already.

He had never expected to see it buried in the chest of a friend.

With another shaky gulp of air, Bofur approaches further. Now that he is close enough, he can see that Bilbo’s face is relaxed – at last. But he doubts this was a peaceful end. There are shackles holding his hands in place, and the skin underneath is bruised.

Bruises that will not fade, now. An injury that will never heal.

For a moment Bofur cannot help but wonder what happened – did Fili stumble in, bloody and desperate from the battle, was Kili there as well? Was Bilbo dead when Bofur urged Kili to find him and escape? Did the prince come here together to try and sooth the hobbit, did they tell him what was happening? Perhaps Bilbo was asleep and never knew –

But Bofur has been in the world too long to believe in such a blessing. It is more likely that Bilbo was awake and terrified – and abandoned by all friends that should have been there to help and protect him.

That should have much earlier realizes the unhealthy obsession of the princes’. Should have acted on that shifted dynamics after whatever occurred in Laketown. Should have never allowed the gold to blind them.

It is all too late now. Bilbo is dead, as are the princes. Amends can never be made.

Bofur blinks, and finds his eyes dry. Tears might come another day, if ever- right now, he, too, feels dead inside. Maybe another time –

With a heavy sigh he sinks down on the mattress, next to Bilbo’s lifeless form. This wasn’t how this journey was supposed to end. Bofur might have held little hope – the odds had been so dramatically stacked against them.

He’d expected to be burned to a crisp by an angry dragon.

He had not expected venture to end in war with so many dead. Not only the Durins and Bilbo – but all those poor souls from Laketown that died in the flames. The men that fought, the dwarves Dain brought, even the elves – this battle has claimed too many lives.

It is difficult to imagine how Erebor, Dale and Laketown could ever regain their splendor.

Bofur shakes his head. He will leave these worries to the politicians. Instead, he leans forward and looks for the clasps of the shackles holding Bilbo’s arms in place. The skin is cold under his fingers, as cold as the gold.

For a moment he wonders if he should leave the body here. They have enough bodies down at the camp.

But then his eyes find Bilbo’s face again. Their hobbit is visibly thinner than at the start of their journey. Stress and starvation have left their marks, and Bofur thinks they should have never taken Bilbo along.

Certainly, their quest would have failed much earlier. And yet, he can’t help but think about the lives that could have been saved.

And leaving Bilbo’s body here is not an option, Bofur decides. They abandoned him before already – he deserves to be honored, at the very least.

So he wraps the eerily light body in the frayed blue coat he finds in a corner of the room. Bilbo, he thinks, would have preferred his own clothes over dwarvish garments. Especially since the dwarves betrayed him in the end.

When Bofur reaches the camp, the sun is setting. The sky is overcast, though a few remaining sunrays find their way down to the earth – but they do not warm the air. It is cold, and it will snow during the night, and many wounded will not survive.

“Bofur!” Gloin is the first to see him, “Did you – “

He falls silent. Behind him, Balin and Dori emerge from a tent – negotiations, then. But they, too, spy the bundle in his arms and Bofur can see realization set in.

“Is it Bilbo?” Balin asks after a heartbeat, and a lifelong mastery of rhetoric allows his voice to remain even.

“Aye,” Bofur inclines his head. 

“He’s dead, then,” Dori states, flatly. Bofur can only nod. 

Balin closes his eyes, while Gloin blinks. “What? How? Wasn’t he in the mountain the entire time? Did some of that scum sneak inside? I – “

Balin interrupts him with a cough. Bofur catches his eyes and realizes that Balin, too, knows what they have overlooked. Knows and has already guessed how the lucky number of their company came to such a grievous end.

“I suppose that is a tale we all should hear,” Balin solemnly announces.

And they must hear it, because it is their fault as well. Somebody else might have held the knife, but they allowed this to happen. Bofur knows that this is a burden he will carry for the rest of his life.

But he also knows that history, when it will be written, will tell a different tale.

_Fin_

 


	29. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle is won, the dwarves want Bilbo to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This derived from a prompt Syxx gave me - 13 times the dwarves were possessive of their hobbit. While below is another story, the general theme is same - so beware a dark ending. Also, mostly off-screen violence. 
> 
> And an ending that I hope clears up all the obscure implications in between.

It starts, as these things are won’t to do, completely harmless. The first part of their journey Bilbo spends almost as a pariah, and only those actually curious enough will engage him in conversation. He tells himself he doesn't mind, but once he manages to rescue Thorin in a fit of madness, his situation improves. And once he steals thirteen dwarves out of the elven king's dungeon, they consider him one of their own.

***

Oin's first action after battle is to seek out his companions and ensure they all live. His brother trails after him, until Oin orders him back to the mountain - Gloin has a nasty cut on his arm and needs sleep beyond everything else. He hopes Erebor's silence will lull him to a rest.

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur he sends after Gloin, though with a request to try and set up the mountain's infirmary rooms near the gate. A lot of the old medicine jars have survived, Oin had discovered, and these stocks are sorely welcome now.

Within a the day he finds Nori, Dori, Ori, Dwalin and Balin and spends four hours fighting to save Thorin's life together with Gandalf and two elvish healers. Then Fili and Kili are carried in, and night has fallen when all limbs have been reattached and wounds sewn shut.

They will live. Copious amounts of blood may stain Oin’s clothes, but their King and his nephews will live. Dwalin pushes him to rest, but the last member of their company remains unaccounted for.

“I’ll rest once I’ve had a look at him,” Oin protests. Dwalin’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, and the other dwarf frowns.

“He’s with the elves, I think,” Dwalin mutters, “Saw a man carry him in earlier today.”

“Then get me there,” Oin argues – he’s interacted with enough elves by now to think nothing about marching straight into their camp. “Did you see how he was?”

“Alive?” Dwalin replies, “Looked bloody, but he was moving. Talking, too, I think.”

Which could mean anything – Dwalin’s perception only allows for either alive or dead. Tendencies don’t mean anything. Oin rolls his eyes.

“Dori!” he calls as he catches sight of the other, “If you have a moment, come along!”

Even at this time Dori’s braids are impeccable – a rare sight between all the dust and debris strewn through the camps. There is a bright red cut along Dori’s cheek, but Oin thinks it’s healing well.

“We’re getting the company back together,” Oin announces, and catches Dwalin grin from the corner of his eye, “The moment it’s possible, we’ll move Thorin and the boys. For now, we’ll get our burglar.”

“Bilbo? Didn’t he get away?” Dori asks and raises an eyebrow. Neither pays any attention to their changing surroundings – the sturdy tents of Dain’s camp give away to the brighter, fluttering fabrics that characterize the camp Thranduil’s troops have established.

“No, he was fighting,” Dwalin responds, “I saw him, I think – didn’t really look as if he had any idea of what he was doing with that letter opener, but he did try.”

“He shouldn’t have been in there,” Dori mutters, “Really, what was he thinking?”

“Rather, what were Gandalf and Thranduil thinking,” Oin adds grumpily. It should have been their responsibility to keep Bilbo safe – after all Bilbo had helped them, too.

“Probably wanted to save us all with zero instinct for self-preservation,” Dwalin snorts, “Seems to be a thing with him.”

“Somebody should talk to him,” Dori shakes his head, “Which way?”

Dwalin tilts his head. “The tent on the left.”

They march inside, barely acknowledging the guard posted outside. A smell of herbs and peppermint wafts through the air, light and refreshing, but underneath the stench of blood and gore remains. Elvish linen does not hide blood any better than dwarven fabrics do – and the groans of the wounded do sound the same, too.

At least this infirmary is not overly cramped, Oin thinks. But unless the elves know more miracles than he is aware of, not even half of those lying here will leave the tent alive.

“There,” Dori exclaims, and pulls at Oin’s shoulder. With a grimace he turns and follows Dori to the side of the tent, where – almost hidden by a sheet – a smaller cot is set up. 

The figure resting atop is familiar – Oin takes a moment to assess their burglar’s condition. Pale, with a head injury, breathing steadily – he has seen worse.

“What are you doing?” a sharp voice asks, and Oin turns to see an elf marching up to them with an imperious glare on his face. He straightens.

"Checking on our burglar. From here on, he will be treated in the mountain," Oin pronounces, "He is one of us."

The healer frowns, "You cast him out before."

Dwalin growls, Dori sighs and Oin takes a deep breath. Elvish longevity tends to inspire a strange relationship with temporal events – trust an elf not to understand quick changes or the concepts governing dwarven groups.

"The judgment has been revoked," Oin replies, hoping those terms will explain the situation to the elf, "Bilbo Baggins remains a member of the company of Thorin Oakenshield."

"While I'm glad to hear that," the elf counters, "I have to admit I doubt how conductive to his recovery the mountain will be."

And that might have been a good argument, but Oin knows that the company needs to be complete. They need to have their own back.

"It will help," he says sharply, "Also, judging by the state of these tents, I believe Erebor's stores might be better stocked. We will care for the hobbit from here on."

***

When Bilbo wakes to a stone chamber instead of a tent, he is naturally confused. He blinks, tries to clear his aching head – he does not dare to sit up, lest his queasy stomach rebels. When he finally manages to tilt his head, he catches sight of Bifur.

Who exclaims and then rushes from the room, leaving Bilbo to wonder.

Is he back at the mountain? Is he elsewhere? Have the dwarves taken him prisoner? His heart twinges painfully at the thought – he does not want to remember what happened, does not want to hear the echo of those ghastly words.

He knows he deserved it, knows he brought it upon himself. Good intentions matter little – he has been aware the moment he handed over the Arkenstone, but that does not make the betrayal on his friends’ faces hurt less.

“Bilbo!” somebody exclaims, and he has to blink because his eyes are burning, “Bilbo, are you awake?!”

It’s Ori and he looks happy to see Bilbo.

“How are you feeling? Shall I get Oin? He said to get him, anyway, but shall I get you anything else, too?” Ori beams at Bilbo, and the hobbit barely manages a confused upward twitch of his lips.

“I… fine?” he mumbles, and Ori’s smile brightens further. “I’m glad – you’ve been out for a while, really, and I know some of us were worried. Wouldn’t say so, and Oin told us you’d wake up, but we simply didn’t know. But I’m happy you’re up now.”

Bilbo blinks. “Yes… but, Ori – where am I?”

“Oh,” Ori blinks, “Erebor. Oin, Dwalin and Dori went to get you when they went to gather everybody. The company needs to be together, after all.”

He declares it with such a gusto Bilbo hardly dares to protest. Still, “… Thorin banished me.”

Ori shrugs. “He wasn’t in his right mind. Gold sickness and a dragon spell – I think none of us were thinking straight then. But Gandalf checked the treasury and things should be all right now. Don’t worry.”

“Really,” Bilbo mutters, because how can everything be so easily resolved? How can the pain he still feels tearing him apart be cast aside with a shrug?

“Yes,” Ori replies cheerfully, “Though I think some of them want to apologize to you. Thorin said something, I think, but Oin isn’t letting him leave his bed, you see.”

Hands on his throat. Wind rushing past his ears. And the ground a long, long drop from his dangling feet.

Bilbo swallows. “Yes,” he mumbles faintly, “I see.”

But he doesn’t. Perhaps he is too old, too inflexible – but he cannot just forget the heartbreak, desperation and terror of those days.

***

As it turns out, he isn’t the only one who cannot forget. Balin is eloquent in his excuse, and his explanation is worded in a way that Bilbo can understand – logically, if not emotionally. His stubborn heart insists on replaying those frightening moments atop the wall.

Then he is spirited to Thorin’s side, as the King remains bed-bound.

“I would have your friendship once again,” the King concludes his apology. Bilbo, with tears burning in his eyes, nods shakily. A part of his heart is soothed – the betrayal is forgiven, his reasons are understood. And Thorin once again looks at him with warmth in his eyes.

It is more than he dared to hope for.

But it does not stop the nightmares.

*** 

“Perhaps I should leave,” Bilbo tells Balin as they are making their way down to Dale. The camps have shrunk significantly, and construction in parts of the town is well underway, though the majority is in disrepair and will remain that way for a while longer.

A fine layer of snow covers the ground and a cold wind tugs at the cuffs of Bilbo’s coat.

“Go back to the Shire,” he continues and casts a wary glance at the grey sky, thinking of green hills and sunny days back home. “It is home, after all.”

Balin chuckles. “I think many would be quite sad to see you leave so soon,” he replies easily, “Especially Bard. I think he has grown rather fond of you.”

“Fond of making me his go-between, you mean,” Bilbo grumbles. He doesn’t mind it, honestly, and he enjoys helping where he can. Just Bard’s insistence on making certain Bilbo is present for each round of negotiations is a bit bothersome.

“Well, he certainly recognizes your talent,” Balin says, “But anyway, winter is no time to travel. The paths across the Misty Mountains won’t open until late spring, and the wolves come far to the south during winter. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Bilbo frowns. “I see. Well, then I suppose I’ll wait until spring.”

***

When spring comes, Bilbo is busy helping Ori sort out Erebor’s library. When Ori had first approached him, it had sounded like a simple task:

“It’s a lot of books, and you do read elvish, so perhaps you could help me sort through those books. I can read it, but sorting through the books in Khuzdul alone will take forever, so I would be glad for whatever help I can get.”

Ori had smiled brightly. And Bilbo, still not very comfortable with the icy cold outside, had agreed.

Then he had realized just how vast Erebor’s library truly had been. Once the other dwarves had cleaned up the rubble, stabilized the ceilings and helped rebalance the shelves, Bilbo had found himself in a labyrinth of books written in all languages that had ever existed.

So by the time spring had passed he had managed to sort through a little over half the number of books in Sindarin and Quenya, but with each morning – each ray of sunlight – the longing in his heart had grown.

Now, as he steps out from Erebor’s entrance he tilts his head back and breathes in deeply. A warm breeze caresses his cheeks – summer has almost arrived. He thinks of the Shire, of the party tree. Of Bag End’s green door, sunflowers and roses. Of strawberries and cherries, and when he returns to his beautiful, luxurious but windowless chambers in the mountain that night he knows that the next caravan will be his.

***

“He shouldn’t be leaving,” Ori complains to his companions one night. Bilbo has left earlier, accompanying Bard back to the gate.

“I know, laddie,” Gloin agrees, “He’s one of us. Of course it’d be sad if he left.”

“He says he’s made agreements with some traders in Dale – they’ll take him to Mirkwood.” Balin adds, “I’m not sure if that’s safe.”

“He should have an armed escort, at least,” Oin huffs, “But really, he shouldn’t be leaving at all.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” Kili mutters, and tilts his head, “Do you think we haven’t made him feel welcome enough? I mean, we’ve all been very busy.”

Bifur shakes his head. “That’s not it,” he says in Khuzdul, and they all know what he means. It has been hard to miss that Bilbo has remained pale since the battle. And that sometimes he stares into the distance with longing on his face.

But that doesn’t change, Nori thinks, that Bilbo is part of the company. And the company should stay together.

*** 

As the day of departure grows nearer, Bilbo begins to feel unwell. It might be nerves – his stomach is queasy, he sweats a lot. Sometimes he feels faint, and has had to sit down abruptly more than once.

Calm down, he tells himself, it’s nothing. A day in the sun and it’ll be gone.

But in the back of his mind he knows he cannot allow himself to grow sick. The traders depend on him to pull his own weight. He dares not to ask for further assistance – everybody is so busy rebuilding, and every capable pair of hands is needed. Perhaps once he gets to Mirkwood he can ask Thranduil for support.

He can always sell Thranduil some more of his treasure, after all. Both Thorin and Thranduil would enjoy that immensely. A small smile steals across Bilbo’s face, before a cough rattles his chest. The spell doesn’t last long, but leaves an ache in his bones and Bilbo runs a weary hand through his hair.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps.

“You aren’t looking very good,” Kili tells him, studying him from far too close, "Are you sure you want to leave tomorrow?"

Bilbo sniffles, nods, and tries to retreat a little. But Kili, never mind having officially been proclaimed a prince, still does not understand personal space.

“Even if you’re unwell? You shouldn’t leave then,” Kili continues, “It’s dangerous, and traders frequently travel between Dale and the Woodland realm – anybody would be happy to take you. So you really shouldn’t push yourself.”

Bilbo manages a wry smile. “I think I’ve travelled in worse condition.”

But his jokes falls short and Kili’s face grows sad. “Yes, but … it’s almost as if you want to get away from here as fast as possible.”

“I don’t …” Bilbo protests instantly, but Kili shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t blame you. This isn’t home for you – I mean, I think I and this other certainly wish it was, because it’ll be strange if you aren’t there. Families share a home, and you’re part of our family, now, after everything. So, yes, well…”

Bilbo rests his own hand on top of Kili’s. “You are family for me, too,” he tells Kili, and hopes the dwarf understands, “But I think … well, I would like to see the Shire again. That is my home, though I will miss you as well.”

“Not as much as we will miss you,” Kili insists and Bilbo says nothing, though he isn’t sure if Bag End will not be very lonely after all. But then he also recalls sunshine and birds and knows that he needs a break from the mountain.

Splendid as Erebor is, her darkness drains his energy and he is no dwarf to take pleasure in gemstones and gold.

***

For a while his health neither improves nor grows worse, and he begins to pack. He will only take what he can carry on his own – he has no need for a fourteenth of the treasure, neither does he require jewel-studded armor or doilies spun from golden thread. Rather, he will take what reminds him of his comrades – a hair bead from Fili, a drawing from Ori. Some herbs from Oin, the map from Thorin – those are his personal treasures.

More dwarves warn him not to travel unless he is well. And he doesn’t quite understand why he isn’t improving. Perhaps it is the mountain, after all.

He still makes himself attend dinner. His friends’ faces have grown sadder, but Bilbo makes himself wear a smile. Tonight, though, he feels a bit light-headed the moment he sits down. Nori claps him on the shoulder, and Balin greets him as they are served.

“You remain rather pale,” Balin comments, as the plates are being taken away, and Bilbo has barely managed to finish half of his meal, “The departure date is soon, isn’t it?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps being on the road might help.”

A smile plays on Balin’s lips, “Speaking from experience, I would be inclined to doubt that.”

Bilbo mirrors the wry expression, though he is beginning to feel rather dizzy. “And I would have to agree. Still, if I don’t leave now the paths across the Misty Mountains will be closed again and I will be waiting another year. And I’m rather afraid of what is becoming of my home during my prolonged absence.”

“That is certainly a concern,” Balin replies, “What would be common, then, among your kind?”

“Hobbits don’t usually disappear,” Bilbo answers – lightly, though there is cold sweat on his forehead and his pulse is racing, “So I believe everybody will be rather confused. I do imagine, however, a certain faction of my relatives will try to have me declared dead – they’ve always wanted to get Bag End.”

“Dear me,” Balin chuckles, “That cannot be allowed.”

Bilbo tries to smile, but the world is spinning. He has to clutch the table in order not to fall over, and he can’t stop his head from falling forward.

“Bilbo?” Balin asks, “Bilbo, what is it?”

“Bilbo?” Somebody else calls, and Bilbo hears something clatter. Fabric rustles, and his vision is darkening, and he wants to tell them not to worry. This is inconvenient, he think – and then he thinks no more.

***

“He certainly cannot travel like this,” Oin announces. Dwalin has carried the hobbit back to his quarters, and the entire company had followed on his heel.

Now Bilbo is settled comfortably on the oversized bed – too pale, but at least he has stopped sweating. Oin has sent Ori and Dori to pick up herbs and tea, he knows how to treat this.

But the drawn expression on Dwalin’s face, the nervous twitch of Fili’s fingers, Bofur’s pacing and Thorin’s stony silence speak another language. They’ve almost lost their burglar before, after all – they aren’t willing to risk him again.

Thorin finally unfreezes and frowns. “Certainly not. I’ll send a messenger to Dale tomorrow – they’ll inform the traders.”

“Yes,” Balin mutters, “That would be wise. Also, Bilbo mentioned that some relatives might try to claim his possession – perhaps we should arrange for a message to the Shire, as well?”

“Of course,” Thorin inclines his head.

“A raven to Rivendell should suffice,” Balin continues, “I believe they are familiar enough with the Shire to know how to best establish communications. And I think Lord Elrond was fond enough of Bilbo to arrange for it without demanding exorbitant favors in return.”

*** 

As surprised as Bilbo is at his sudden collapse, he cannot deny that travelling in this condition is not a good idea. So he thanks Balin for his foresight, and prepares himself to spend another winter at Erebor.

By now, many refugees have returned and even Dale begins to look prosperous again. There is still a lot of work to be done, but a general sense of cheer permeates the air – it is difficult to remain gloomy. The nightmares are gone by the time Bilbo arrives at the markets.

Thorin assures him that the wares still have nothing on Erebor as it was in its prime, but Bilbo is happy to marvel at the many unfamiliar curiosities, the strange fruit and weird vegetables the traders bring from distant lands.

Down in Dale he finds fabrics and flowers, and even though it isn’t the Shire, he can enjoy this. The sun in Dale is bright, and the Long Lake glitters invitingly under a cloudless blue sky. These are not the Shire’s gentle waters, so Bilbo keeps well away. But his health improves, and his heart grows a little lighter.

“By the way, Bilbo,” Fili mentions one evening over dinner, “That is a new jacket, isn’t it?”

The hobbit smiles around a bite of hare. “Yes, I had it made in Dale.”

“It’s nice,” Fili says, but his mien says something different, “Though, well, it’s a bit …”

“Simple,” Kili completes the statement before taking a drink. Bilbo blinks, wondering what to say – and then realizes that suddenly the entire company is studying his new jacket with interest.

“I, well, my clothes have gotten far to worn, and I just needed something,” he defends himself, “Nothing special – the library is too dusty, still, you know that.”

“Of course, of course,” Balin agrees, and Dori tilts his head. “We know, but … you are part of the company. And with many returning dwarves there are certain expectations that have to be met, you understand?”

“I, yes, but I’m just a hobbit – I mean I’m not all that special,” Bilbo protests. He can understand that Fili and Kili have to dress nicely. And all the others that now hold important positions in Erebor – the Shire has familiarized him with the relation between position and dress.

But he is rather outside of Erebor’s social norms.

“You are still a member of the company,” Thorin smiles at him from the head of the table, “And you should have a wardrobe to reflect that. We should have really seen to it sooner.”

Bilbo sighs. “Very well,” he agrees, “But no shoes.”

***

The new wardrobe arrives within a few days in form of a group of dwarves carrying several crates. Bilbo blinks at the procession wandering in and out of his rooms, before Dori joins him.  

"The wardrobe commissioned for you," Dori informs Bilbo. It seems there is an endless supply of crates – and even if Bilbo had extensive wardrobe in the Shire, the dwarves seem intent on doubling that amount.

"I won't need that much," he tells Dori, "I didn't ..."

Dori clasps his shoulder. "You'll need that many clothes, believe me. As a member of Thorin's company you need to dress the part."

Dori knows that Bilbo - who set out in a dinner jacket and a waistcoat - possesses an affinity for good clothes and an eye for quality. Erebor's floor-length jewel-studded fur robes are a far cry from Shire fashion, but Dori thinks they look good on their hobbit. And he knows the others agree.

“Let me give you some tips,” Dori says and steps forward, beckoning Bilbo along, “I don’t think you’ll be familiar with everything here – you can always ask some of the staff, but just to give you an idea of what goes where.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Wouldn’t do if I showed up in a nightshirt for dinner.”

“Indeed,” Dori returns, thinking that Bilbo might just get away with it, but then turns to open the first crate, skipping the undergarments. From what he recalls from their travels, dwarves and hobbits dress similarly enough in that regard.

“Well, these are undershirts, too,” Dori announces and pulls out a leather vest, “There are several variations, but we mostly wear those for protection. You’ll find some made of metal, and of course, you have your mithril shirt, too. Only, we dwarves wear these kind of garments underneath, so they’ll be invisible.”

Bilbo reaches out and touches the leather. “It feels rather stiff.”

Dori chuckles. “It’s for protection, not comfort. If it was soft, it wouldn’t be of any use.”

“Well, I think I’m rather safe,” Bilbo proclaims.

“In the winter, they also help keep you warm,” Dori adds, and sees the calculation gleam light up Bilbo’s eyes. Trust a hobbit to place comfort over safety – but for now he won’t insist.

“You’ll find shirts in the box over there,” Dori gestures, “Some are tailored like the one you wore coming here, but some others are dwarven style. You can either wear a waistcoat over these, or a frock coat – or both. In the more formal settings both are a good idea – and go for the ostentatious ones then. We dwarves like being impressed.”

Bilbo draws an emerald-studded waistcoat from one of the chests with a chuckle. “Ostentatious doesn’t really begin to describe it.”

The light catches golden threads, pearls and diamonds, and with a shake of his head Bilbo sets the garment aside.

“Well, the most important piece in general is the overcoat. Not everybody wears one all the time, but those of status are expected to,” Dori explains, “You’ll find one in dark blue – those are Thorin’s colors and that one is for special occasions only.”

“Thorin’s –“ Bilbo echoes with a frown.

“It’s a great honor, and Thorin gave the order himself,” Dori says, “He just wants to make sure his subjects truly understand your position. You know how stubborn dwarves can be.”

“Don’t I…” Bilbo mutters, but his voice is subdued. He casts a glance over all the crates – this wardrobe might easily last him the rest of his lifetime, and from every open chest he catches the sparling of gemstones.

These are fine clothes. But no clothes for the road – no clothes for travel.

“There is one more thing you should know,” Dori interrupts Bilbo’s contemplations, "You see, we dwarves have our braids and beads, and of course, Thorin has a crown. That you insist on keeping your hair short is already odd enough to any dwarf, but to leave it untouched would suggest you are a criminal.”

Bilbo raises both eyebrows at that – this would certainly account for the many odd gazes he has seen cast his way. But then again, he wonders, why his dwarves have not informed him of this unintended slight any earlier.

Dori clears his throat. “ At least allow for some jewels or a diadem - that way your short hair won't be considered demeaning any longer – you’ll find some pieces in the small chests in that corner. If you need help, just get me.”

***

The second winter in Erebor passes slowly.

As the winds pick up outside and the temperatures drop Bilbo’s excursions to the outside grow shorter and fewer. More than once Oin reprimands him to watch for his health – hobbits are not made for the harsh winters of the east.

Bilbo thinks he is being ridiculous – their quest has put them through harsher conditions.

“You need to understand, he’s just worried,” Ori tells him when Bilbo joins him in the library. They are working on a comprehensive catalogue – completion of the project may take years.

“I understand that,” Bilbo returns sharply, “I just wanted to visit Dale. It’s not as if it’s far away or as if they have no heated inns there.”

“Still, if a storm comes up, the way can easily become blocked,” Ori returns.

“Well, then I’ll spend the night. It’s not as if they didn’t know me or would cast me out,” Bilbo snorts, “The worst I’ll catch is a cold.”

“We saw you with a cold, Bilbo,” Ori reprimands, “I don’t think anybody wants to repeat that.”

And that is the crux of the problem, Bilbo thinks and puts down the book a little too hard, dwarves are simply not used to sickness. They understand injuries, but something as simple as a cold makes them panic.

“Still,” he harrumphs, “Please at least inform Bifur to let me out on my balcony. I’m not in any danger of freezing out there.”

Ori laughs. “You should ask Bofur. But if Bifur thinks you shouldn’t go out, indulge him – he has his reasons.”

Considering that Bilbo is not the only person Bifur has been motherhenning, he has to accept that. With a sigh Bilbo lets him shoulders think forward and tells himself to be patient.

Winter will pass. 

And then he can go home.

***

The winter drags on, and Bilbo finds his patience is running out. His desire for sunshine and daylight grows, and even the few trips down to Dale cannot satisfy the longing in his chest. Once the snow melts, the ground is brown and barren – when he wants to see green.

Part of the reason – the one he will not admit – is the heavy air inside the mountain. Returnees demand back their former possessions, others vie for positions and many claims cannot be substantiated. Sycophants haunt Thorin’s every step, Fili and Kili find themselves surrounded by ambitious daughters and sons, and hateful looks are cast after Bofur, Bifur and Bombur.

In the end, dwarves are no different from hobbits, Bilbo tells himself. The Shire, too, would take ill to a dwarf living among them in splendor when most of them struggle to make ends meet. He spends much time in the library – at least here he does not hear the whispers trailing his own steps.

And no matter how much he enjoys the time spent with his friends, all the signs tell him it is time to leave.

So after the snow has melted, he approaches Thorin as the dwarf walks from the throne room toward his own chambers.

"Thorin," Bilbo begins and worries his lower lip. He feels many eyes boring into his back and wonder what he must look like - an over-dressed doll addressing the King with an unbefitting degree of familiarity. It's no surprise that the rumors have started casting him in another role altogether.

Thorin inclines his head, though his expression is stormy. Bilbo knows he doesn’t enjoy sitting on the throne and sorting out claims and accusations. Balin has said as much – and Thorin’s continuing bad mood the few times Bilbo talked to him, implied the same.

"I was thinking - it's been almost three years since I last was home," Bilbo continues calmly, "And, well, I would like to look after -"

"Gandalf conveyed your instructions to that gardener of yours, didn't he?" Thorin replies gruffly, "And you paid an advance that, as your said yourself, ought to last a decade at least. Though if you're worried, we can easily send more gold."

"That's not it," Bilbo protests sharply, "I have responsibilities beyond just Bag End."

"We can arrange for somebody there to take care of them," Thorin finally stops and turns to look at Bilbo. He is visibly exhausted, but smiles warmly at the hobbit. "You know you have but to ask, Bilbo. Whatever you wish, you will have – we don’t want to see you leave. Not when the roads are so dangerous."

***

"He doesn't get it," Bilbo complains to Bofur later that night. They are seated in Bofur’s apartments with an opened bottle of wine between them.

Bofur leans forward and frowns. "Are you sure? I mean, why do you want to go back? You said there is nobody waiting for you there - isn't Erebor your new home now?"

Bilbo blinks. "Yes, certainly, but..."

"Haven't we made you feel welcome yet? I'm afraid we dwarves aren't that good at conveying our emotions, but we consider you a member of us - a member of the company, remember? And it would be a pity if you just up and left." Bofur continues, and sniffles. “Really, I think… the mountain wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Guilt wells up in Bilbo’s chest.  “I --- I didn’t mean to say I wasn’t feeling … well, Erebor is certainly home to me as well,” he concurs. It’s easy to say, at least, even if he still feels odd among so many dwarves.

“I just… well, perhaps I was just missing my garden,” Bilbo shrugs.

Bofur wipes at his eyes. “But you got that pitch outside, didn’t you? I think if you ask in Dale, they can help you with things to grow there. Just us dwarves are hopeless at that.”

Bilbo laughs. “Believe me, I know. And I’ll try, though it would be nice if I could get some things from home…”

“Yes, but I think the roads are dangerous, right now,” Bofur replies, “Did you ever get a reply to any of your letters?”

Bilbo thinks of all the letters he has written ever since the battle ended. Bombur had sent them together with all of Erebor’s official correspondence.

“Few,” Bilbo says. There had been a short note from the Thain saying the instructions on the upkeep of Bag End had been received. An upset note from his aunt had been included – but all his other letters – to his cousins, to Gandalf and even the odd note to Thranduil asking if the elves could arrange passage had never been answered.

“But letters get lost or damaged easily,” Bilbo adds.

Bofur raises an eyebrow and looks at Bilbo. “And we’re just afraid you will, too.”

***

So spring passes and slowly turns into summer. Bilbo learns that not only the roads have become dangerous, but even on their doorstep and within the mountain, trouble is brewing. Returnees and nobles who feel they deserve more have begun spinning intrigues.

The whispers grow louder. And Bilbo feels uneasy.

Still, he does not want to change his routine. If he cannot travel, he will at least make his trips to Dale – the wares here are the same as in Erebor, but at least there is sun on his face, wind in his hair and less ill-will directed at him.

"Going to Dale is dangerous," Fili warns him one day when Bilbo is writing a list of the things he wants to buy, "With the situation being as it is, who knows what might happen. Uncle and I, and I think the rest of the company, we'd all feel safer if you didn't go."

The prince is seated in a chair adjacent to Bilbo’s – his posture relaxed, but lacking the ease he displayed when they were travelling in the wild. Bilbo knows the princes come to visit him in equal parts for company and to get away from the rest of the mountains. They dislike the scrutiny as much as Bilbo does, though it seems they handle it better.

Bilbo is touched at the concern, but he also knows that if he spends one more day in the mountain, he will go insane. He misses the sunlight, and as raw as Dale is, it's greener than Erebor's halls of stone.

"Don't worry," he tells Fili, "I'll be perfectly fine."

Even if some dwarfes dislike him, he is still a respected member of the company. And he has fought hard to stop be afraid whenever Thorin reached out to clap him on the shoulder – forgetting those moments on the wall was not easy, and he is not willing to give this up because of rumors.

Fili frowns unhappily. “I’d feel better if you stayed in.”

Bilbo turns to him. “Should I be watching out for somebody in particular?”

His stomach twists. He doesn’t want to be wary – he wants to enjoy the sunshine and the markets. But Fili is concerned.

“No, but …” Fili’s lips twitch, “You would be so much safer in the mountain.”

***

The day is sunny, thought the wind remains cold. Erebor's upper slopes are covered in snow, and Bilbo's bare feet are thankful Dale's streets are not. He huddles into the large fur coat - much too ostentatious for his taste, but very warm - and directs his feet to another corner of the market.

He was wary, initially. Fili’s words were more difficult to forget than he hoped, and in the end he agreed to accept an escort. But by now he has spent several hours passing stands, and his escort is proving helpful in patiently carrying his shopping.

Bilbo hums and lets his gaze wander on.

Perhaps he should bring some souvenirs for his friends? They have all been doing their utmost to make him feel welcome lately – sometimes he thinks they’ve been stopping him from leaving on purpose. But then again, it has been long since somebody has made him feel so warm and beloved – he may not feel at home with the mountain, but his dwarves are certainly family.

Bilbo spies a delicately carved pipe that Bifur might enjoy. He eyes the item for a moment, but eventually decides against buying it and steps back.

He hears a soft hiss of air and a thud – something heavy slams into his shoulder. Did somebody shove him? His knees feel weak ---

Next to him, a man shouts in surprise and somebody screams. Cold spreads from his shoulder and all down his back. Bilbo staggers, confused. He doesn’t feel right, can’t quite remain upright --

His knees fold.

"Master Baggins!" he hears somebody shout. He blinks and sees his entourage run towards him, eyes wide and terrified, and his shopping dropped to the ground.

Not the tomatoes --

"Master Baggins, you - "

But Bilbo never hears the rest of the sentence as he loses consciousness.

***

"Just a little lower and the arrow could have caused a serious injury," Balin tells Bilbo. The hobbit has been laid up in his own chambers and a troupe of four healers and Oin is constantly checking on him.

Bilbo nods quietly. His hands rest quietly on top of the covers – they do not tremble, but Bilbo’s heart does.

Balin sighs, and concern warms his gaze. “I’m sorry this happened,” he says and Bilbo can’t find the words to tell him that this isn’t Balin’s fault – least of all.

“We all are,” Balin continues, “Erebor is dangerous – it’s sad that it is so, but it is difficult to settle all discontent. You know that some of the returning nobles protest the changes that have happened.”

“They want their fortune and their titles,” Bilbo echoes Thorin’s complaint.

Balin closes his eyes. “I’m sorry you got hurt,” he repeats.

When he is alone, Bilbo sighs and rests back against his pillows. His shoulder doesn't hurt, but the bandages keep him fairly immobile. He knows it shouldn't bother him, but he wishes he wasn't so helpless - he fought a battle after all and has managed to survive. That an arrow wound that did not penetrate all that deep should leave him laid up like this -

If the arrow had hit any lower, echo the words in Bilbo's mind.

But, he thinks, he has taken a step back then.

So, if he hadn't moved the arrow would have missed. Whoever fired was not aiming to kill at all.

Something cold runs down Bilbo's spine. Why would somebody miss on purpose? To cause a scare? To frighten Bilbo? But, Bilbo thinks, why would anybody want that? His influence is small, no matter how close he is to Thorin.

So perhaps there was another motive. Perhaps Bilbo wasn't even the shooters main target. Maybe he was aiming for somebody else and Bilbo merely got in the way. Or perhaps this was just a distraction?

Or, Bilbo admits to himself as he slumps against the pillows with a deep sigh, he is reading too much into it. There might not have been an insidious motive at all - the shooter might have just had a bad aim.

Still, he wishes that being the only hobbit in a mountain of dwarves would not automatically make him a target.

*** 

Summer turns into autumn and while Bilbo’s injury heals, he cannot shake what happened. Even the familiar corridors leading to his chambers turn threatening – and he avoids the markets of Erebor altogether.

Dwalin warns him further to only visit Dale with a member of the company. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his soldiers – it is just that their loyalty is to their captain, not a hobbit most of them have only seen from afar.

The paranoia lingers.

Bilbo wishes he could forget Dwalin’s warning, but wherever he goes, he now feels eyes boring into his back. Hears whispers trailing his steps and see contemplating gazes cast his way from the corner of his eye.

He knows that he is one hobbit in a kingdom of dwarves. He also knows that not all the returning nobles or the immigrants from the Iron Hills approve of his continued presence. But, as Balin told him, “You’ll need to give them time – you know how stubborn dwarves are and how little they like to change.”

Still, he had hoped for an opportunity to spend some time away from the mountain. However, if even his letters do not make it to the Woodland Realm, he has little hope to make it himself. Especially when his shoulder still twinges from time to time.

With a frown Bilbo shifts his shoulder a little under the heavy garments and sighs in relief when the muscles relax under the pressure. He hadn’t meant to stay quite so late in the library – the corridors are all but abandoned.

They feel a little darker, too, and Bilbo quickens his step. He’s tired after having spent an entire afternoon reading. A part of him regrets not being able to go outside – the weather should be nice, but after what happened in Dale, he knows to be careful.

Perhaps it is because he is tired, but he does not hear the footsteps closing in. He does not see the figure drawing close from the corner of his eye.

Only when he is pulled back violently against a hard chest, one hand presses against his mouth and the other arm pinning his arms to his side, Bilbo realizes the danger. His heart jumps, but his scream is choked, the hand pressing down on his lips relentlessly, and Bilbo struggles.

His attacker is taller, and Bilbo can feel nothing but hard leather behind his back, and his flailing hands slip from metal gauntlets. He tries to twist, but is tugged off his feet and dragged into a small, darker side corridor, with only the sounds of flesh hitting leather echoing.

Panic rises as his surroundings grow dim – he is unfamiliar with the maze that Erebor is, he might be taken anywhere and would not know. There is split second when the huge hand leaves his face – but before he can draw enough breath to scream a piece of fabric is being shoved into his mouth, while a second pair of hands ties the gag behind the back of his head.

Bilbo shakes his head frantically, trying to dislodge those rough hands, but only manages to slam his head against a hard breast plate, and his chest is growing tight. He can’t breathe, can’t scream – and is this what Dwalin warned him about, is he going to be dragged away and killed, and why didn’t he take precautions, why –

A coarse bag is thrown over his head and tightened around his throat, and while Bilbo desperately tries to breathe through his nose, another pair of hands drags his arms behind his back and wraps rope around his wrists.

At that point his heart falters. He’s – not going to get out of this one. Nobody is coming and he can’t free himself. Bilbo’s head spins, and something sharp pricks his shoulder. Fabric rustles, and he’s picked up – slung across a hard shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Cold sweat is making his clothes stick to him, and he feels terrified – and then he doesn’t feel anything anymore.

***

“It was probably too much,” Balin mutters. Kili wrings his hands, hovering next to the still figure on the bed. The ordeal is visible on Bilbo’s too-pale face – he has lost weight and color.

“But he will recover?” Kili asks. Fili is gnawing on his lower lip, and Balin – being the one they turn to when Oin is not present, sighs.

“Probably,” he replies.

That answer is not good enough, Kili thinks. He does not want anything bad to happen to Bilbo – he just wants the hobbit to stay. And take better care of himself.

“Just,” Balin says and collects his things, “Be careful with him.”

He doesn’t look happy. Kili waits until the door has shut again and he is alone with the hobbit – then he reaches out and runs his hand through soft locks. It wasn’t that long – just two nights. Bilbo has gotten through far more dire situations.

He faced down a dragon.

But even Kili cannot deny the weight loss, the shadows under Bilbo’s eyes and the way their hobbit has started to withdraw. He just hopes that this latest ordeal will not break him – and make him understand how dangerous the world is for a small, fragile hobbit.

***

Bilbo feels no desire to leave his bed or his chambers – not that he is allowed to. Two guards have taken up residence outside of his door, handpicked by Dwalin, but they cannot stop nightmares. He hasn’t touched a book since the ordeal, and when he closes his eyes he still recalls the rough hands on his skin.

Rope on his wrists.

He swallows and wipes angrily at his eyes. His hands tremble, and Bilbo wishes he could find rest. But darkness terrifies him. 

A loud knock sounds on the door and he jumps. 

“It’s me, Thorin,” a familiar voice calls, and Bilbo tells his pounding heart to slow down.

“Yes, come in,” he manages, but his voice is faint and hoarse. His kidnappers didn’t starve him or anything – it’s just fear that has damaged his vocal chords.

Thorin enters and at his approaching bulk Bilbo shrink back against the headboard. He hates these reactions – wishes not each and every thing would frighten him so, however his heart is not so easily soothed.

“I apologize for coming so late in the evening,” Thorin says and his gentle voice soothes some of the terror still filling Bilbo’s veins.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he murmurs, and sees an unhappy expression cross Thorin’s face. Then the King collects himself – he isn’t wearing his crown, Bilbo notices.

“Court proceedings kept me, I’m afraid. But I wanted to tell you the news in person,” Thorin continues, and Bilbo draws the blanket up to his chest.

“Your attackers have been found guilty and executed,” Thorin announces, “I hope it will deter future imitators. I’m sorry this had to happen to you, Bilbo, I truly am.”

Bilbo doesn’t feel anything at the announcement. His attackers may be guilty – but they were not the ones who fired the arrow in Dale. They were maybe just a few of those eyeing him with thinly veiled disgust.

“I know,” he tells Thorin, because at least his friends care for him. They’ve all been there already, bringing gifts and trying their best to support him. And it makes him feel guilty when he cannot share their love of their home, remains scared and frightful and takes up their time.

“Truly,” Thorin echoes. He looks sad, just as Bilbo feels.

***

Afterwards the days blur together. Bilbo stays inside – his friends keep visiting, but the only news they bring is that tensions remain high. They also worry endlessly about Bilbo’s health, and while he knows that going outside would help, he finds his voice is caught in his throat.

He stops visiting the library, too. The empty corridors frighten him, as do the unfamiliar dwarves wandering the hallways. Always he feels eyes on his back – and wonders if the owners of these eyes are not plotting the next attempt.

It’s from his well-guarded balcony that Bilbo catches sight of the delegation of elves preparing their horses at Erebor’s gate. He didn’t even know they were there – having been kept away from the court for his own health.

But they are leaving Erebor and it’s a beautiful day, and Bilbo can see the lake. The dark green of the Woodland realm. The silhouettes of the Misty Mountains.

His heart jumps into his throat.

Leave, something whispers, leave now. Run.

His friends, he tells himself. His belongings. He cannot just go running off into the blue – he has responsibilities. People he cares about. But his heart is pounding, and an emotion he has not felt in years blossoms in his chest.

Leave, leave, leave.

He sees the Misty Mountains. Snow-capped peaks, and after crossing those, he will find his way back to the Shire. For a moment he can see the rolling hills of the Shire clearly. 

Bilbo stands up, throws down the pruning scissors. He has run off into the blue before, hasn’t he? And his belongings – Well, his belongings are waiting in Bag End. That is where his mother’s doilies are, after all. Erebor’s fancy robes and jewels are just gifts after all. He hopes they’ll find a worthier possessor next time.

Then his feet carry him through his chambers – and to the unused corner of his closet. Sting is there, as is a jacket done in the style of the Shire and a lone traveling cloak. Bilbo tosses his fur-lined overcoat onto the bed – he can’t waste time packing.

Slips on the simple jacket, and feels a little more like himself. It’s mad, what he is doing. His reasonable side is terrified – the outside world is dangerous. Remember your enemies. Remember that arrow.

But he also remembers a wide blue sky and a green door on a hill.

There is a familiar ring in the pocket of his jacket. Bilbo cannot stop himself from smiling – he will leave. He will apologize to his dwarves later. Write a letter, once he is on the road.

He hopes they will understand.

Then he is out of the door. His guards call after him, but he is running and they’re confused, and he has a ring of invisibility. All he has to do is dodge the dwarfs milling around.

For once the corridors are no longer frightening. He relishes in each step, traces the familiar way he hasn’t walked lately. Part of him will miss this, certainly. Perhaps he might even regret his hasty departure.

But then he is out of the mountain, and when the cart he hides on begins to roll, Bilbo sits up straight. Tilts his face toward the sun, enjoys the cool breeze caressing his face.

He is going home.

***

"Uncle," Kili shouts as he bursts into the room, "We’ve found him! Bilbo is joining a caravan from Dale to Rohan!"

Thorin glances up from his desk covered in parchment. His expression remains calm, and Kili takes another step forward. "Aren't you going to stop him?"

Fili purses his lips, and Thorin signs another scroll, before he sets the quill aside and sighs. "It's taken care off. You needn't worry."

Fili frowns. “But … you saw how he was the last time.”

“I didn’t mean for things to go so far,” Kili mutters, “I mean I took care. And you were there, Fili, we – “

Thorin lifts a hand and leans back. “That is the price we must pay. But as long as he can, Bilbo will always want to leave.”

“Why doesn’t he understand that shouldn’t?” Kili questions, “He’s one of us.”

Fili nods emphatically. Then he catches sight of his uncle’s expression. “You have found a solution?”

Thorin inclines his head shortly. “It would seem so. Dwalin and Nori do agree as well – though I have to admit it is somewhat harsher than I had hoped.”

Kili shakes his head. “As long as he stays.

***

The sharp stench of smoke drifts to Bilbo’s nose. A strand of hair tickles him – the ground is hard, and his vision blurry – cold sweat covers his back and face. Dust blows against him, and there is blood on the ground.

A shape –

They were attacked, he remembers. Attacked, and of course the air smells like charred flesh and burnt wood. His body aches fiercely, once more, but this time his fingers refuse to twitch. Blackness flickers at the edges of his vision.

He hasn’t gotten very far, Bilbo thinks, and somehow he is too exhausted for desperation. If this is death –

A movement draws his attention for a moment, and he catches sight of the wavering shape of something – someone – tall and broad making their way towards him. The silhouette is as dark as the bandits’ clothes has been.

How much time passed? Is that –

Bilbo catches sight of an axe. The blade glints silver in dull light of late morning, untarnished by blood or rust. Probably taken from a member of the caravan then.

His eyelids flutter and the next thing he knows is that a pair of feet is close up to him. He sees leather – those shoes are good handiwork. Perhaps better than what he could buy in Bree, though Bilbo has never bought shoes.

But they are next to him, and he is probably about to be killed, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. His vision wavers and his head spins, and if it’s about to go all black, that is quite all right with him. He’d like to see the Shire – can remember how the sun felt on his skin, the smell of fresh grass in the air, and he barely even hears the words exchanged over his head.

“Be careful,” one person administers.

The other chortles. “I know what I’m doing.”

And then it’s all gone.

*** 

It is beautiful and clear day. The wind up high on the balcony is cold, and Bilbo pulls the corner of his fur coat higher. It’s one of the garments he didn’t expect to ever wear – one of those that he’d looked upon and thought nice, but completely unsuited to the road or the Shire.

Much has changed since then.

His eyes find the glittering Lake, the deep green of the woodland realm – and in the distance, a faint silhouette against the cloudless sky, are the Misty Mountains. He will not be seeing them up close again, and though he did not enjoy crossing them the first time – his heart aches.

It’s what lies beyond those mountains that he misses. The letters now tell him that his smial is taken care of – he even hears some of the gossip. But he is not going to see it again. The party tree, the green door – the Shire’s rolling hills and gentle little rivers are all out of reach.

Bilbo sighs and turns away.

Wistful thinking will not help – the attack has made that decision for him. The road is dangerous for one whole and hale. Bilbo is neither now, jumping at shadows and missing a foot. Even dwarven-made prosthetics cannot fully replace a limb.

No, Erebor is his home now. And Erebor might be a lonely home, being a single hobbit among dwarves – not many of whom consider him a friend. It’s not a safe home either. With mysterious bouts of sickness, disappearing correspondence, assassination attempts and kidnappings.

Ever since he stopped trying to leave, these too, have ended.  But that is only logical – it’s not as if he doesn’t understand.

The feeling of cold sweat on his body that announces a fainting spell – the small prick that precedes it. Disappearing letters sent out together with the rest of the kitchen’s correspondence. An arrow that missed being fatal on purpose. The familiar scent of a person while somebody is pressing their hand across his mouth and dragging him into the darkness.

A bandit telling another to be careful.

Now that the terror is gone he understands.

_Fin_

 

 


	30. Drums in the Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sound of drums is intimately familiar to Ori. And at the same time he does not know why. Until one day, the sound of drums echoes from the depths or Moria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alkjira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira) left me the prompt about a year ago. It took several attempts but I finally managed to cook up something. Hopefully it works. 
> 
> Warnings: Off-screen violence and character death.

Some say they have a calling.

Ori knows dwarves who have known what they would work as for all their lives. From the moment he could walk, the story claims, Dwalin knew he was to be a warrior. As soon as he could talk, Bombur announced his desire to be chef. And Bofur has always known stone – even as a dwarf child.

Others say they know whom they will marry.

Kili has called it soulmates, his heart filled with romantic notions and a fierce belief in love and fated encounters. He probably hadn’t expected to feel his heart beat faster upon seeing an elven warrior, but – looking back – Ori thinks if they had had more time it could have blossomed beautifully. Balin has never talked about it, though sometimes, when Dwalin has drunk too much, there is talk of a girl. One known to him since childhood and probably bound to be his wife – until the dragon came, destroyed Erebor and her alongside it.

Ori knows no calling. He loves books and has a passion for writing. But these interests do not constitute a calling. And he knows not whom he will marry either – he knows infatuation, but nobody set his heart alight like Kili was by Tauriel.

All he knows is a sound.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm._

Hollow and deep, without melody or key. Perhaps a heartbeat, perhaps a rhythm? For a while, he studies music. Listens to the elegies and songs of his people, but he does not find an answer. None of the traditional songs resonate with him.

He does not find the love of his life either. Not because Dori protects him too well or Nori scares away potential suitors. Rather, he learns affection, learns how to be close – while in the depth of his heart the sound echoes. Lonely and unexplained.

Thorin Oakenshield’s quest for Erebor is a mad, summertime romance among the more sedate rhythm of his life. For a time he knows excitement, and his own heart finds a beat that is faster, livelier and less menacing than the one echoing in his soul. The air tastes fresh, and the sky appears a brighter blue – at least until the dragon brings about devastation and the cursed gold conjures madness.

Sitting in the dim light of Erebor’s treasury, gazing across mountains of gold and gemstones, seeking a stone he thinks they will not find for this is how the fates work, the sound returns to his dreams.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm_.

The summertime romance ends in bloodshed. Bodies cover the ground, and the air tastes of ash. The smell of burnt flesh lingers in Ori’s nose. He watches, almost dispassionate, as the bodies of Kili and Fili are carried from the field.

“Too young,” the dwarves around him mutter, “Too young. Such a waste.”

Dori grips his hand tighter. Ori understands his fear. Knows that it could have been him lying on the cold stone, eyes closed forever. But he does not feel the fear himself. Not even when this ought to be the point of realizing his own mortality.

Instead his heartbeat mirrors the sound he has always known and yet does not understand.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm._

It takes a little more than hundred years until he finds the answer.

The sound echoes through Moria’s cavernous halls. First heard three days ago, a pulse from the deep. A fiery glow followed – and then screams. All hair had stood on Ori’s arms, and sparks raced up and down his spine while Balin had bellowed for the guards – secure the miners, contain the threat, look after the wounded. And Ori had only stared.

Watched and listened as his heart echoed the drums from the deep.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm._

The lower levels of Moria are consumed by flames. Chaos descends on the reclaimed kingdom, orcs are blocking their exits and panic spreads.

“A balrog! They have a balrog!” Brima, head of the guard, exclaims. Balin wipes sweat of his paling brow, while Ori calmly writes down the words. His heart is thundering and his fingers tremble. But not with fear.

The feeling in his chest is different.

“We went too deep,” Mari, head of the miner’s bemoans, “We did not know what slept there! And now we cannot blockade the tunnels.”

Desolation spreads. They’ve lost their way out.

“Ori,” Balin sighs, one gloomy afternoon when all that remains to them is the heart of Khazad-dum. Fighting grows more intense, and day by day they lose a little more ground. Soon, Moria will be lost to orcs again.

Ori, who has seen two kingdoms reclaimed, understands that at one point they must fall. And while he understands the grief – he does not share Balin’s deep connection. Moria is not Erebor – not the one kingdom that drove a king to desperation, inspired madness and was paid for in blood.

Moria’s price is just as grim. But, perhaps, a tad bit more insidious.

“Ori,” Balin repeats, “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. Your brothers would murder me, and I would gladly let them, but I am afraid others will do so first.”

Ori sets down the chronic he is recording into. And musters a faint smile. “Do not worry,” he replies evenly. These days his nerves no longer bother him – he knows what will follow. “I made my choice and they understand.”

Balin’s expression grows grieved. “You’re too young. You shouldn’t – “

He shakes his head, and they both remember a pair of princes – bright-eyed, light-hearted and full of life. They died too young, and Ori now is but little older than them. He feels older. Having seen Erebor reclaimed, lives lost and hearts broken, he thinks he stopped being young sometime between the Shire and the smoldering ruins of Laketown.

“I’ll – tomorrow one unit will make for the western exit,” Balin announces with a frown, “They’ll be joined by our best fighters, so that at least some may make it. I won’t let everybody die here.”

And Ori understands that this is a nightmare for Balin. He has seen Erebor lost to a dragon, lost family and friends to fire and destruction. Having to watch the fall of a second kingdom will be too much. And Balin does not plan to escape himself.

“You are staying here?” Ori asks.

Balin’s lips twitch. “Aye,” he sighs, “I – and those that volunteered – will try to keep the scum back as long as possible.”

Ori relaxes. “I’ll stay as well.”

“No,” Balin protests immediately, “You’re too young! You need to get –“

And the Ori of old would have never done this, but ever since he first heard the drums echo from the depth of Moria’s mines, Ori has felt less nervous and more certain. “Balin,” he says, “I know. I think I have always known – I will stay here.”

Balin does not look as if he understands. And Ori doesn’t mind – it is hard to explain, anyway.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm_.

Some know their calling. Some their soulmate. And Ori has always known his fate.

Ever since he was a child. Ever since the echo of drums first crept into his dreams and followed him into his waking consciousness. Long before he set foot into Moria, years before he had become a member of Thorin Oakenshield’s mad quest.

But he had always known his destiny. Had always known that foreboding, menacing sound of drums in the deep and deep in his heart, had probably understood that this was his fate.

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm._

Balin falls three nights later. They have to give up on the outer reaches of the city. They do not know whether or not the small group headed for the western exit ever made it.

Ori records what he knows. Erebor’s chronic has become a list of names a places; a list of deaths. And yet he keep scribbling, even when the sound of drums continues to grow clearer. The familiar faces grow fewer and more haggard. Food has long run out – but dwarves are hardy creatures. They will survive a little while longer.

“Retreat!” Somebody screams and for a moment the book in Ori’s hands is tinted orange. Warmth caresses his skin. It doesn’t feel like sunlight. And the air smells of sulfur and an evil predating even Smaug.

“Retreat!” the shout is echoed and Ori pauses long enough to take an inkwell, his book and feathers before following the others. How many are left? Ten? Twenty?

Will it be minutes or hours before the end comes?

_Dumm. Dumm. Da-dumm_.

“Master Ori!” somebody shouts, “Take Himrid’s sword! Please!”

Ori shakes his head and sets the quill to the parchment again. His skill never was with swords – his duty is to the books. To history. And this duty he will fulfill.

The drums are close. No longer a menacing echo, but loud and clear in the air. Their beat fast – almost cheerful – and Ori’s heart flutters. For a moment he feels young again, and excitement rushed through his veins.

This is not setting out to reclaim a mountain. This is no mad escape from Thranduil’s dungeon. This is no victory about the orcs in Moria. It is death and destruction in every meaning, and yet Ori cannot taste fear in his heart.

Because finally, finally, the sound has gained meaning.

_Dumm. Dumm. Dumm._

It is the sound of fate.

_End_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the update took me so long, this is double update time. ^_~


	31. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt came from the [kink_meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20601855#t20601855). (And the fill crab-walked alongside it.) The prompt (abridged): 
> 
> The ring manipulates this guilt and self loathing, whispering in Bilbo`s mind, telling him that he is to blame for everything, that he is a traitor, that he caused so many deaths and hurts by his actions that he is forever stained with blood and can only redeem himself through suicide.  
> All this mental onslaught coupled with his actual guilt, Bilbo can`t take it anymore and begins to self harm and attemtps suicide.  
> The Dwarves especialy Thorin can`t understand this sudden change in Bilbo, are terrified by his actions and will do anything and everything to make him whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this prompt is dark. Not creepy, but dark so please proceed with caution.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, self-harm, suicide [attempt], not the happiest of endings. And a tiny spoiler for a scene from the extended edition. 
> 
> That said, please enjoy!
> 
> Edit: The lovely [teaxdragon](www.teaxdragon.tumblr.com) has drawn [a short comic](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/post/133120090062/happy-belated-birthday-to-paranoidfridge) of a very central scene of this fic. Please take a look!

 There are some things in the world that are beyond imagination. Some things that the mind cannot perceive. Some things that the heart cannot bear.

Smaug, last of the great dragons, towers at a size no tale has correctly told. Nor will words ever accurately express the terror he instilled in those that saw him. In the dwarves and men that watched him descend in a whirl of fire and smoke, death and destruction. As he ravaged their homes, tore apart their lives and crushed all life in the mountain.

Nor will words ever tell what one small hobbit felt as he watched the great beast sail across the nightly sky. Overhead, stars twinkled and in the moonlight those vast wings shone gold. Down below, the lights of Laketown flickered peacefully on the water.

There is a moment when Bilbo asks what they have done. But his heart cannot grasp it yet. His mind does not understand what he is watching.

Then the town goes up in flames.

The night, up on the mountain, is quiet and peaceful. Down on the water, hundreds die in the firestorm.

Because he told the beast where he came from, a malicious voice hisses in the back of Bilbo’s mind. Because he set the dragon onto the town.

The blood is…

“Bilbo,” somebody calls and Bilbo flinches. Balin steps up next to him, his face lined with grief. But the fire is too far away to cast their faces in an orange glow up here. There is only a cool wind that ruffles Bilbo’s hair and freezes his fingers to match the feeling in his chest.

“Thorin wants us inside,” Balin announces, “We need to prepare for the dragon’s return.”

***

The dragon does not return.

Instead Bard arrives, backed by ragged group of survivors from Laketown and an elvish army in shining armor. Bilbo watches the negotiation escalate, and his stomach turns and twists.

“We have nothing left!” Bard shouts, his eyes fixed on Thorin. “Our town is burned! Whatever we possessed is gone! All our stores are destroyed, and it will be winter soon!”

Bile rises in Bilbo’s throat. He has not seen Laketown. But half the men behind Bard wear signed clothes. Some sport burns on their faces. If these are the ones who survived in good shape –

You sent the dragon down, the voice repeats. Bilbo clenches his fists in his pockets and is glad nobody is watching him, because surely his face must be as twisted as his heart is.

“You brought this upon us!” Bard adds, “I warned you not to disturb the dragon!”

His words pierce Bilbo like daggers. Thorin may have sent Bilbo inside. But he was the one taunting Smaug. He was the one who grew overconfident, who betrayed Laketown to its demise. Those deaths – and the lives winter will inevitably claim – Bilbo has caused.

He should have never left home.

“I will not treat with you as long as there are two armies camped on my doorstep!” Thorin shouts back, voice cold and hard. Bilbo does not recognize it, it frightens him. His hand touches the ring in his pocket – it is cool, unchanged. It can hide Bilbo from those accusing stares men cast upward, but it cannot hide him from the truth he knows.

Cannot protect him from the guilt he must carry.

***

Bilbo is no longer hungry. This is, perhaps, a small blessing – they have run out of food, and the majority of dwarves hardly care. They spend their days counting through the treasure, proclaiming their findings and seeking out the Arkenstone.

They do not care for those that wait at Erebor’s gates.

They do not care for the men that still die from wounds the dragon inflicted. That grow thinner as their slim stores are running out. For the new blood that stains Bilbo’s hands with each life the destruction Smaug wrought claims.

Bilbo sits listlessly, staring at the wall. Sometimes he wanders into the treasury. Sometimes he gets lost. Sometimes he uses his ring just to avoid everybody.

And, he thinks, maybe he should get lost forever. Wander into the gaping darkness of Erebor’s halls and tunnels. Fall down into an abyss – he has forgotten what it feels like to breathe freely. Cannot remember the feeling of sunlight on his skin. Warmth in his bones. What is was like to sit outside, on a warm summer evening and watch the stars come out while having a pipe.

That now seems like another life. One Bilbo does not think he can go back to. Not with so much red on his fingers…

In a trance, he pushes himself to his feet. The company will take some time until they notice he is missing. Perhaps he should leave a note – just so they know not to look for him? He wouldn’t want anybody else to waste time on his behalf, after all.

His eyes fall onto his backpack, and he recalls that there is another item hidden within.

For a moment, his lips twitch. Isn’t he just a walking disaster? Not only does he manage to pit a fire-breathing dragon on a town built from wood, he is also hiding the one item that is driving Thorin mad. Not many people have accomplished two feats so terrible – perhaps this is how history will remember him. Bilbo the Terrible.

It almost makes him smile and the trance fades. Bilbo purses his lips. Falling down a mineshaft is a rather cowardly way to go. His actions may be irredeemable, but that doesn’t mean he gets to run from it. Not when there is still something he can do.

His parents taught him that, at least.

Not that they would have been proud, Bilbo thinks, and then straightens his back. It’s unlikely Thorin will be receptive to suggestion. But he has to try.

Bilbo directs his feet toward the treasury. His head feels stuffy, numbed, and gathering a clear thought is difficult. Everything reminds him of what he caused and the guilt is suffocating. If there was a way to undo the damage …

He shakes his head with sad smile and pushes on. Soon, the corridor leads him to the vast treasure hall. He hears clinking, steps, and subdued voices. Mutterings in the dim, golden light. The sparkling diamonds and golden coins do little for Bilbo, and he turns his head to look for Thorin.

The dwarf is on top of a small mountain of treasure, digging carefully through it. Atop his head, the sturdy crown of Erebor sparkles ominously.

Bilbo gulps. “Thorin,” he calls out as he approaches, but the dwarf does not look up. Long hair hides his face from view, and his back is tense.

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeats, “I need to talk to you.”

He is an arm’s length away when Thorin finally tears his gaze from the ruby encrusted chalice in his hand. “What do you want, burglar? Have you found the Arkenstone?”

Bilbo reflexively shows his empty hands. “No, I came to – “

“Then you should continue searching,” Thorin orders and turns back to the treasure before him.

Bilbo’s heart drops. Perhaps he underestimated the degree to which the treasure has claimed Thorin’s mind. Perhaps – he shakes his head.

“I need to talk to you,” Bilbo insists, “It’s about Bard.”

Thorin’s finger clench around the chalice. When he looks up, his eyes are cold and furious. “We have no business with that man as long as he consorts with elves.”

“They need help,” Bilbo protests, and Thorin’s expression blackens, “Really, Thorin, just – you don’t need to help them, but I was thinking…”

He takes a step back as Thorin sets down the chalice, deceptively gentle. Then he rises.

“I was thinking,” Bilbo forces himself to continue even if he now has to tilt his head back to look Thorin in the eyes, “The dragon came onto Laketown because of me. And the contract accords me a fourteenth of the treasure – and really, I could never get so much gold home – how about giving my share to Bard instead?”

Thorin’s face twists abruptly. Bilbo barely registers the change, before Thorin grabs him by his upper arms in an unforgiving, iron hold. It hurts, but he’s spell-bound by the hatred filling Thorin’s eyes – all warmth gone from his expression without a hint that it had ever existed.

“You dare to suggest such a transgression? You would have me give my kin’s heritage away to a second-rate traitor?” he hisses and his voice is colder than ice. Bilbo’s heart freezes. “You would have me abandon all I fought for? Would have me bow my head to one who has never honored his word?”

Bilbo shakes his head frantically. His arms are numb, and he desperately searches for words to appease the King – he did not mean to offend him, he never wanted to unsettle him, all he ever wanted to do was make things right –

“You, Master Baggins, would have me sell out my kingdom before my kin has rightfully reclaimed it? You would have me summon another dragon?” Thorin continues, “For it makes no difference whether an elf or a dragon hoards my kingdom’s treasures.”

“No,” Bilbo stutters, “No, I – “

That’s not what he meant. Not at all – but Thorin doesn’t listen. He shoves Bilbo away suddenly, and the hobbit’s ankle gives. Bilbo hits the treasure with a dull thud, golden chalices and coins clink and roll. His head rings, but he sees Thorin tower above him.

The dwarf has a hand on his sword’s hilt.

“Next time before you make such a suggestion, Master Baggins,” Thorin says coldly, “Think. One day you may have to take responsibility for your actions.”

***

The words stay with Bilbo for a long time. He knows what he has brought about, understands it clearly even though the mountain is black during the night when only the snores of his companions provide company. Thorin no longer sleeps, the search for the Arkenstone having consumed his mind.

Bilbo wonders if this, too, lasts on his shoulders. Thorin will not find his gem, not as long as Bilbo knows exactly where it rests. But he cannot hand it over – it would not dispel Thorin’s mad obsession.

Instead he sits up, stares into the darkness and purses his lips. For a moment, the image of a distant town burning rises – it has seared itself onto the back of his eyelids.

Your fault, a voice inside his head hisses.

And Bilbo sighs. He will not deny his responsibility. But he will not see the men of the lake come to further grief either. He will not allow a pointless war to happen – not when he thinks he knows how to stop it.

Warily, Bilbo pushes himself to his feet. Casts a glance over his companions – or those that are present. Dwalin, Gloin and Fili are with Thorin. Bombur is outside, keeping watch.

They will not like him anymore come morning.

All that he gained in the months he traveled with these dwarves, the friendships, the easy companionship, the profound respect – it will all be lost. And nothing, nothing will be able to restore the trust he is destroying.

But they will live. And Laketown won’t starve. The elves won’t have to go to war.

In the end, does he have a choice?

***

What must come to pass, passes. Worse than Bilbo expected – he’d thought himself prepared, but hadn’t counted on the fierce pain ripping through his heart as Thorin raged and screamed. Suffocating – not from the hand around his throat – but from the disappointed stares cast his way.

Balin, Ori – even Kili – they all look at him, not with fury, but grief. And grief, too, perhaps drives Thorin to distraction. Once Bilbo’s legs dangle in the air and the wind howls around his ears – once he thinks it all will end, only moments left to this tragedy – once Thorin seems ready to kill him, his eyes turn blank.

Not from Gandalf’s shouts or Bard’s pleas. But from something that echoes in Bilbo’s own heart, something now ripped into pieces. Instead of letting him go to meet his fate, Thorin sets him back down. Turns around, unable to look at the traitor any longer. “Get out of my sight.”

And he does, and fate laughs into his face.

***

Orcs come, and goblins. Bats turn the day into night and only after much blood is shed the sun peeks through again, now casting light onto desolate, scorched earth. Broken bodies and smoking ruins remain, the survivors having dragged themselves to the ramshackle city of tents, their colors muted and stained. Even the elvish banners no longer resist the dirt.

Bilbo’s head aches fiercely. His vision is blurred and he stumbles forward, wondering where to go. Thorin’s words ring in his ears – he is banished from Erebor, but Laketown burnt down and Dale is a ruin.

His heart longs for the Shire. Or Rivendell. For blue skies and warm air.

An icy gust of wind makes him shudder. He clutches his torn jacket closer, and frowns at the dark sky. Already the shadows lengthen. Night will fall and temperatures drop even further. The wind carries the cold smell of snow.

“Bilbo!” somebody shouts, “Bilbo, there you are!”

He looks up to see Gloin running toward him. The red-haired dwarf sports a bandage wrapped around his upper arm, but his eyes are clear and no disappointment mars his features.

For a moment Bilbo contemplates reaching for his sword. But his body has reached its limit, and Gloin he could not have bested at his full strength. The ring then – Bilbo takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to run, but he was banished. If the dwarves find him – if Gloin drags him back, it’ll be death.

Even though Gloin doesn’t look particularly angry.

And, Bilbo thinks, with the temperatures dropping, it is unlikely he would survive the night anyway.

“Bilbo,” Gloin gasps, and reaches for the hobbit, but hesitates, “Are you alright? Were you hurt? You look terrible.”

Bilbo blinks. “No, I … I … I was about to leave. I’ll not bo – “

“What? Leave where? Did Gandalf ask you? Is the wizard completely mad now? You can’t leave like this!” Gloin shouts, and grasps Bilbo’s arm.

“But I …” Bilbo stutters, “I mean … Thorin…”

Gloin shakes his head, “Owes you a serious apology. And not only he, and not just one. But I’ll get you to Oin first.”

Bilbo pushes his feet into the ground. Gloin doesn’t make sense; there is no point in bothering Oin when Bilbo will lose his head after anyway. Better to just go to sleep and let the cold do the rest. Declare him fallen in battle – that way it’ll be the least trouble for everybody involved.

Gloin notices the protest. And instead of merely dragging Bilbo along, he stops and turns. “Bilbo? What is it?”

Worry clouds his eyes as he leans down to study the hobbit closely. Bilbo’s heart clenches painfully at the reminder of the friendship they once shared.

“Just,” he stammers, “Just leave me here. It’ll … it’ll be easier.”

Gloin frowns and puts his hand against Bilbo’s forehead, not minding the blood and grime. Bilbo can’t help but sag against it.

“I apologize, but you don’t seem to be all here,” Gloin mutters quietly, “Yell at me all you want later, but I’m taking you to Oin first.”

And with that he scoops up a weakly protesting hobbit.

***

Thorin watches the sleeping hobbit with a deep frown. Bilbo has grown pale and haggard and he lies almost deathly still. The only dash of color provides a set of blue and purple bruises around his throat – and Thorin’s chest tightens.

Oin proclaimed the hobbit on the mend. Or rather said he’d done what he could.

Bilbo’s injuries are not terribly grave, Thorin knows this. But he suffered a head injury, and Thorin fears the outcome. Especially since Gloin remarked that Bilbo had appeared dizzy, not quite present. And had passed out before Gloin had gotten him into camp.

No matter, Thorin thinks to himself, he’ll make up for his transgressions. Regardless of whether or not Bilbo even remembers them.

A small noise from the bed attracts his attention. Thorin straightens, looks to the hobbit, and his breath catches. Bilbo's forehead is ceased, his fingers twitch.

For a moment Thorin contemplates sneaking out. He doesn't think Bilbo will be glad to see the king that almost murdered him, and Oin was deeply worried about that head injury. The few who'd seen Bilbo awake since Gloin carried him in - Bofur and Kili - described him as delirious.

Thorin stays and waits and hopes. His chest clenches, and he is afraid. Perhaps his presence will scare the hobbit, perhaps cause further damage. But he cannot go on with the guilt and uncertainty on his shoulders. If he is to take up the crown of Erebor, he will not do it if it cost him his burglar.

Should, Thorin vows to himself as Bilbo's eyelids begin to flutter, Bilbo not recover he will leave the throne to Fili and spend the rest of his own life doing what he can for this hobbit.

A soft noise comes from the bed and Thorin takes a deep breath. Bilbo’s eyes open, and stare at the ceiling without focus, and Thorin forces himself to speak before he can run out of air.

"Master Baggins," he calls, taking care to make his voice soft and gentle.

For a moment he receives no reaction and Thorin's heart grows heavy with dread. But then Bilbo frowns and tilts his head.

Thorin reaches for the waterskin Oin left behind, avoiding Bilbo's eyes a little longer. The hobbit grasps it with shaky, pale fingers that are bruised and cut up. They should never have been, Thorin thinks. He should have never gotten such a gentle creature into such a violent battle.

Only when Bilbo has drunken his fill he finally focuses on Thorin. A thin sheen of swear covers his forehead, and Thorin realizes he is still feverish.

"Master Baggins," he says gently, slowly, "How are you feeling? Shall I call for Oin?"

Bilbo blinks slowly. His lips move, but no sound comes out. Until "... for? Why if you'll ... kill me anyway?"

Thorin can't help flinching. "No," he protests, "You will not..."

Bilbo doesn't react to his emotional response. Instead the hobbit looks at him curiously, with fever-bright eyes free of accusation. Without any fear for his life.

Thorin swallows. Guilt is strangling his heart, and his chest feels heavy. "No," he repeats, calmer and slower this time, "We... I have since understood your reasoning. You have nothing to fear from us or any dwarf in this camp. All know you were the only one to resist the gold."

"Maybe," Bilbo quietly responds, his eyes still out of focus and staring at something Thorin cannot see, "But the dragon burnt it all..."

"You could not have stopped him," Thorin replies, though he isn't sure if Bilbo is listening, "Smaug would have come for the Lakemen sooner or later. We know that now. There is nothing you could have done."

At least the town did not get caught between a dragon and an Orc army. None could have survived - now, the town has suffered grievously, but Thorin knows that men are resilient. They will recover. Laketown will be rebuilt and so will Dale, and perhaps in two or three decades the terror of these days all but forgotten.

But the desolate expression does not vanish from Bilbo's face.

"Please rest some more," Thorin gently advises, "As much and as long as you need. No harm will come to you here. You are safe."

Somehow his words get through. Bilbo's left hand twitches before he turns to look at Thorin. "Safe?" He echoes, "But I..."

Thorin spreads his hands. "The ill-intentioned words I spoke on the wall I have long since revoked. And I cannot do but apologize again and again for not guarding against my ancestor's sickness. For not realizing the gold was cursed. For being blinded by greed and lashing out against a friend who had never given me cause to doubt him. I'm sorry to have driven you to such desperation, and I wish I could take it all back. I..."

"Thorin!" Oin calls, drawing back the tent flap, "Here you are! Balin is looking for you, he said - oh, Bilbo, you are awake?"

Thorin sighs, but when he turns back the hobbit is no longer looking at him. He can only hope his words were heard - he should not hope to ever receive any kind of absolution. But perhaps one day he can make Bilbo understand that he deeply regrets his actions.

Oin shuffles past him. "And, how are you feeling today, Master Hobbit? Up to some stew? We need to get some meat back onto those bones before winter comes."

Thorin rises to his feet. Casts a last glance at the hobbit who is now tracking Oin's movements without a visible reaction. Hopefully he will recover.

At least Oin appears tentatively optimistic.

***

Several days pass before the fever vanishes and Bilbo's mind finally clears. He's shaky on his legs, and sometimes still stares into space, but now he holds his own end in conversations.

At least that is what Fili reports. Thorin, completely swamped with work, has no time to visit and he gains the impression his company believes it would be better if he kept his distance. It hurts, but it's a fair judgment.

Eventually, Oin grudgingly allows Bilbo to leave his tent. The hobbit’s pallor won’t improve, and neither does his appetite truly return, but he’s awake and able to walk. As Bilbo buttons up his shirt and reaches for his coat he realizes he is almost excited.

Looking back, everything that happened since he set foot into Erebor appears like a dream. He doesn’t think he’s quite felt like himself since they left Laketown. Or longer even – the hobbit who left the Shire is gone, certainly.

But now it seems as if something was clouding his mind, and over the last days he has slowly been regaining clarity.

Icy air hits him the moment he steps out of his tent. Before him, off-white fabric flutters in the cold wind and the sky is light gray. A thin layer of snow covers the ground and Bilbo shivers. Draws his coat a little tighter around his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

Soft chatter echoes through the camp, intermingling with the noises of everyday life; clanging pots, snow crunching under heavy footsteps, the ringing of armor and subdued laughter. Bilbo swallows – he hadn’t quite realized just how far his tent had removed him.

When he casts a glance over his shoulder he notices that the fabric of his tent is one of the few that is colored. Dark blue – Durin’s blue, bearing the dwarven sigils as well. The fabric seems thicker as well.

Something within him flinches. He hadn’t wanted to be given privileges. Not when he…

Unconsciously Bilbo fists his hands and happens to touch the ring in the pocket of his coat. He’d completely forgotten about it during his recovery. But now he remembers – and wonders, if at some point it won’t become useful again.

With a shake of his head, he discards the dark thoughts and starts walking.

For now the dwarves appeared desperate to mend ties. And Bilbo enjoys their company, enjoys Kili’s and Fili’s bad jokes, Ori’s rants and Bofur’s roaring laughter. Not that Oin thinks too much excitement does him any good. He rather sends Bombur with stew or Bifur with a toy – Bilbo later learned that Bifur had been terribly worried for him about the head injury.

Bilbo knows he’s been lucky.

Unlike some. Dwalin misses two toes – Kili had jested nobody understood how since dwarven boots are sturdy, so perhaps the toes were lost in an accident after battle – and Nori broke his leg in two places. Balin and Thorin are doing their best to handle the administrative side of things, and Bilbo is left feeling useless.

Especially as he, walking around camp, realizes that everybody seems to have a duty. The dwarves and men may be talking and laughing, but they also fulfill their tasks; carrying water, food and messages. Others are clearing paths through the snow, caring for the wounded or feeding the ponies and rams.

“Bilbo,” somebody calls, and Bilbo turns to find Bard waving.

The man looks like death warmed over, but smiles brightly. For a moment Bilbo can’t find any words, wonders if he dares to ask after Bard’s family –

“I heard you were injured,” Bard says and looks Bilbo up and down, “Though I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“It was just a small injury,” Bilbo replies awkwardly, “Nothing … I mean, how are you?”

There are deep shadows underneath Bard’s eyes. He shrugs. “Alive. Everything’s quite messy – the Master and Alfrid ran with all they could carry and we’re trying hard to reestablish some kind of order. But there’s no leader in Laketown right now, at least not officially.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo replies. Of course the master would have run – he remembers the oily character that so hard tried to win their favor. Remembers the rotten smell clinging to each room in his house, too. They should never have accepted his hospitality.

“Can’t be helped,” Bard shrugs, “It wouldn’t be a loss, really, but Laketown’s burned down and finding a new leader and rebuilding at the same time is quite difficult. But I shouldn’t complain – after all, I’m still alive.”

And he grins, but Bilbo cannot help paling. His hand brushes against the ring and when he blinks he sees the red flames that devoured the town.

“I’m …” he swallows, and Bard’s expression grows serious when he catches sight of the grief written across Bilbo’s face, “I … You were right. We should’ve never gone to the mountain. You warned us…”

“Bilbo?” Bard frowns, “What… No. What’s done is done. It’s been a terrible couple of days, but it could have been much worse. And if I’m honest – Thorin was right, too. He had every right to go and try to take back his mountain. I just wish… well, that doesn’t matter.”

He shrugs and reaches out to grasp Bilbo’s shoulder. “Now, Master Hobbit, don’t look so glum. I know it’s all very bleak, but at least now the threats are all gone and we have an actual chance at peace. That’s not worth nothing.”

Perhaps, Bilbo thinks, but at what price? He shivers, and the gold of the ring feels as frozen as his cheeks. They could have had peace without burning Laketown, if only he’d been cleverer with Smaug. If only he’d found a way to keep the dragon within the mountain.

But he nods to Bard’s words and forces a pale smile onto his lips to display some sort of agreement. In his heart, darkness surges upwards, and the grey sky begins to look threatening.

Your fault, the voice in the back of his mind hisses, it’s all your fault.

“Well, I have to go – the girls are waiting and Sigrid doesn’t like it if I’m late,” Bard announces, “How about you come and visit one of these days? They’ve all been asking – I think they liked having an adult smaller than them in the house.”

Bilbo manages a shaky laugh in response. “Certainly,” he responds, though he wonders who would like him for company. Probably Bard is only saying this to make him feel better – though Bilbo is certainly glad to hear his children are all right.

Bard is about to leave when he turns. “You should go back, too,” he says, “You’re looking a bit unwell, still – better take it easy for a while.”

And while Bilbo nods, Bard waves and disappears between the tents. The hobbit stares after him for a long moment, marveling at Bard’s good mood. It doesn’t make sense, he thinks and his hand closes around the cold ring in his pocket.

He’s humoring you, the voice suggests. He’s not honest. He knows it’s your fault. They all know.

Perhaps. Bilbo swallows, and decides he no longer feels like being outside. Not when he feels as if everybody is staring at him, judging him for what he did. For bringing the dragon down onto Laketown. For stealing the Arkenstone.

Hurriedly, he makes his way back to his own tent. Now he is glad for the thick fabric that keeps out the noises. His own pulse and the voices screeching in his head are loud enough.

That night his fever returns with a vengeance.

***

Winter comes early, and Oin’s frowns whenever he sees Bilbo.

“You are in no condition to travel,” he announces when Bilbo raises the issue. Not that he believes his guilt will lessen in the Shire - but once out if Erebor he will no longer burden the already small stores of men and dwarves.

The company will not hear of it. They will not let Bilbo leave the mountain until winter is past and he has regained his color. They don’t know that the voices in his head grow louder.

And with each passing day the dwarves grow ever busier. Some days Bilbo does not see a familiar face at all. Perhaps, if he had acted wiser, there would be no shortage of helping hands. If he had avoided the bloodshed, Thorin wouldn’t be sporting a new scar. Nori wouldn’t still be limping. Ori wouldn’t be so harried trying to establish a suitable narrative to record the events.

Bilbo does not like to talk about it. He enjoys being in the library, but that is Ori’s terrain, and the young scribe likes to question Bilbo on his opinions. Also on his motivations.

“When you took the Arkenstone to the men, what were you thinking?” Ori asks one evening, and Bilbo flinches. Pushes the book before him away. Swallows and hides away his sweaty hands.

But before he can try to even phrase an answer, Ori bites down on his lip and raises his hands. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Bilbo. Truly, I am sorry – that was an utterly unfortunate question and I should have known better than to ask. Really, sorry. Please believe me I didn’t mean anything by it. I just didn’t think – I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo replies quietly. He understands Ori didn’t mean any harm – the young dwarf would never intentionally harm a fly. But he knows that this is an important question: one that Bilbo won’t answer.

What was he thinking – he was desperate, terrified and trying to make something right. He’d been clinging on to some odd hope of being able to accomplish something that he should have realized was wrong. How could one small hobbit secure peace?

And it didn’t even bring peace after all. Only caused unnecessary grief – the orcs and goblins achieved what Bilbo failed to do. Their enemies were the ones to unite the three races, not Bilbo’s foolish endeavor.

He’d rather not share his foolish hopes from back then. Not when to all observes the futility of his actions must have been blindingly obvious.

Ori apologies once again before he slips back into silence. But Bilbo has lost his concentration, and the voices in the back of his mind are growing louder. Isn’t he proving himself a waste of space again? Ori’s just trying to chronicle events, and Bilbo can’t even answer the simplest question. Why do the dwarves keep him around?

So, after more minutes pass, Bilbo leaves the library. He doesn’t care if he appears harried – he needs to get back to his room. The looks cast his way make his skin crawl. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that he’s a stranger. An alien object in a dwarven kingdom. There’s no place for him here, and he shouldn’t even be here.

He doesn’t understand why Thorin won’t let him leave.

***

“I don’t think he’s doing too well,” Balin overhears Kili saying during dinner one evening, and turns to the youngest prince. “Who are you talking about?”

Fili is the one who replies, casting a glance through the vast room. For now all dwarves – Dain’s remaining soldiers, the first arriving returnees, and the King – take their dinner together, this makes dealing with the rationed food the easiest.

“Bilbo. He isn’t here again.”

Balin frowns. “Perhaps he feels uncomfortable. I mean, it’s just him among quite a number of dwarves. I suppose he just comes by later and takes his portion to his room?”

He glances over at Bombur. Even though he’s head of the kitchens, Bombur always makes certain to eat with the company. “Yes, he does,” he replies between bites, “Though not always. I don’t think he’s fully recovered yet.”

“Or maybe a cold?” Ori suggests, “He didn’t have much of an appetite in Laketown either, and I think this winter is rather colder than winters in the Shire.”

Oin grumbles. “He’d better not. There’s still enough dwarves down with all sorts of ills. But I’ll look in on him later.”

Balin nods contently. It’s been a while since he last saw Bilbo, but then he’s been terribly busy. And Bilbo had looked pale and rather in need of further quiet and rest, so Balin had decided not to drag the poor fellow any deeper into Erebor’s messes.

Not when Bilbo had already done more than his due.

***

Days pass and winter drags on. The first caravans make their way through the snow - dwarves are hardy creatures after all, and Thorin opens Erebor to the men and women of Laketown as well. Their wooden houses on the water have never truly kept out the cold, but now they have been damaged by fire and battle as well.

"Enough have died already," Thorin declares before the unhappy councilors from the Iron Hills, "I will not allow another to die if I have the means to help it. We have a large, empty mountain. It will take time to restore the Kingdom, but these walls can save lives now. And that is more important!"

The councilors must accept his decision. But Thorin knows they will struggle for their own power every step of the way. They take up time, until he barely has time to sleep and only sees his nephews and Balin on a regular basis. Everybody else disappears into their own corner.

Until one day Thorin by chance catches sight of Bilbo

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls out instinctively, ignoring the envoys at his side. He hasn't seen the hobbit in ages, and it's been too long since anybody said something of him. If he comfortable now? Does he eat regularly? Has he recovered, is he feeling alright?

His heart clenches - he should have sought out Bilbo much sooner, should have set aside time -

Bilbo doesn’t seem to hear him and continues along the corridor. Thorin frowns, he should conclude his conversation with the envoys and still needs to look over the restoration plans for the lower levels. But this feels more important.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he tells them and turns away.

The hobbit has already disappeared around a corner, but Thorin's long strides take him there easily. A cold gust of air greets him, as he turns the corner, and he squints. The light is brighter, the air smells of snow -

And suddenly he realizes just where Bilbo is going. Thorin's heart freezes. True, there are not many functional exits to the mountain, and perhaps all the hobbit wants is some air.

But the last time he was out there with Bilbo he threatened to kill him.

"Bilbo!" he shouts. But the small figure in the distance doesn't stop, but continues to step outside. Thorin's heart jumps. Nothing to worry about? His palms sweat and he picks up speed.

The roar of the wind comes closer, and the light is painfully bright, he doesn't see the hobbit, and maybe he is being paranoid, but dread coils in his stomach and he knows he should have paid more attention to Bilbo.

Then he steps outside himself.

They are high on the parapets, and the Long Lake reflects the overcast sky down below. Much of the ground is blackened, and Laketown a ruin, though the fires have long died out. To his right, Bilbo stands and gazes out across the scorched fields without any type of expression.

Bilbo gives no indication he has noticed Thorin’s presence, or that he even notices the icy wind tearing at his clothes. He isn't wearing a coat, either. Only a dark, dwarven tunic over his odd, calf-length trousers.

Thorin shudders – the wind had been strong then, too. Back when he had dangled Bilbo over those parapets with every intention to throw the hobbit to his death. This is exactly the same spot, and he wonders why Bilbo came here.

“Bil-“ he starts again, but then Bilbo moves.

Thorin’s heart stops as Bilbo climbs onto the wall, not caring for the howling wind, the bitter air or the abyss before his feet. One wrong step and he –

Bilbo leans forward. Thorin is terrified.

“Bilbo!” Thorin yells, and the hobbit flinches. Shudders, and then glances over his shoulder.

“Stop!” Bilbo shouts back. Thorin freezes mid-step, an arm stretched out. His blood runs cold – there are dark shadows underneath Bilbo’s eyes, and his entire body trembles. The wind tears at his clothes, blowing dulled locks into his face.

Behind Bilbo the sky is a dark grey and the clouds announce a storm.

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls again, “Bilbo, what – “

“Don’t come any closer, Thorin,” Bilbo pleads, and his voice is thin, “Please, don’t. I –“

Thorin freezes immediately. His heart thunders in his chest and he forces himself to slowly raise his hands.

"I won't," he says and knows he may not keep that promise, "What are you doing?"

A shiver runs through Bilbo's body and the desperation on his face is clear. His hands tremble as the wind continues to howl across the mountainside.

"I ...", Bilbo stammers, "I ... I just..."

Thorin contemplates running. He can reach Bilbo in seven long steps - but Bilbo stands a finger's breadth away from a fatal fall. And the wind is growing stronger as night falls. A surprise may unbalance the hobbit easily enough.

"Whatever it is," Thorin calls back, "You can tell me. Please. But please, please, come down."

Confusion twists Bilbo's expression. "No, I should... I need to..."

"Bilbo," Thorin interrupts sharply, "No. Come down. Come back inside. Whatever it is, tell me about it."

Pain flashes across Bilbo’s face. Something glitters in his eyes and Thorin’s heart clenches. The hobbit hovers indecisively on the edge – Thorin is frozen into the spot by Bilbo’s words. Barely dares to breathe for the fear of startling Bilbo.

In a small movement he spots Bilbo gripping something in the pocket of his coat. The hobbit closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo whispers. And leans backwards into the empty air.

Thorin has never moved so fast in his life. He’s shouting Bilbo’s name when his fingers find fabric and grip at it with desperation, he doesn’t even feel the weight, doesn’t hear Bilbo’s surprised cry, doesn’t notice his own body slamming against the stone with a thud. His heart’s frantic pounding echoes in his own ears, and for a moment there is no air in his lungs.

A choked sob escapes Bilbo’s throat and Thorin unfreezes enough to wrestle him over the wall, before his own knees give out. He slumps to the ground, the hobbit’s trembling body clutched in his arms. His fingers cramp and he cannot loosen his hold. Terror grips his heart, the moment Bilbo starts falling forever scorched onto the back of his eyelids.

Something pulls painfully at his hair and he finally notices Bilbo’s equivocally desperate grip on his coat. The hobbit’s face is buried in the fur collar and Thorin hesitantly unlatches his hand and rests it atop Bilbo’s head.

The curls are soft under his fingers. Even in the fading daylight they retain a golden hue. He just wishes Bilbo’s face would regain its color. For the hobbit to smile again –

But he may have brought this about himself.

“Master Baggins…” Thorin murmurs, “Bilbo.”

He has no right to use that name. No right to invoke their earlier friendship, not when he cast it aside so carelessly. But with the wind howling around them and the sky growing steadily darker as night falls, he will cling onto all straws offered. Desperation, to Thorin, is an old familiar.

“Bilbo,” he repeats and caresses those golden strands, “Why … why would you do this?”

His voice hitches on the last word, and he forces himself to press on. “I, I understand that… is it my fault? I know I wronged you greatly, but I will do anything – and I mean it, anything – to make it up to you. I can only beseech you to make use of it – or whatever needs to be done.”

A shudder runs through the body in his arms, and Thorin’s hold tightens involuntarily.

“Bilbo?” he asks quietly, “Please – if you can – and I know I have no right to ask you that, tell me why. I would have – will do anything to make you happy. Everybody will. Please, let me know how I can help you.”

With great effort Bilbo lifts his face. And Thorin’s heart breaks when he sees desperation and exhaustion marring those formerly smooth features. Red rims Bilbo’s eyes, and his voice is shaky. “Make it stop,” he whispers, “Just make it stop. Please.”

He curls into himself before Thorin can make sense of the plea. The king catches the hobbit by his upper arms.

“What?” Thorin demands, “What do I have to stop? Bilbo, please, let me know!”

The hobbit sags in his grip, and Bilbo wearily manages to gather himself enough to whisper one answer.

“The voices.”

And with that he passes out.

***

When Bilbo comes to, his head aches and he feels terribly drained. Crossing Mirkwood has not been this exhausting, he thinks as the familiar ceiling of his rooms swims into view. Indeed, everything that came before has not broken him down to this level.

For a moment he recalls the icy, howling wind. The darkening, grey sky, and the rocks below almost invisible in the growing darkness. In that world of death and desolation the Shire appears a distant vision. Even now that the voices have grown dim, he cannot remember what sunlight felt like on his skin. What it was like to be well-rested and content.

Your own fault, the voices whisper in their dissonant hisses, you brought this about yourself. And isn’t it a fair punishment? Remember how many lives you destroyed by your ill thought-out plans.

Bilbo closes his eyes against the pain in his heart even though it’s meaningless defense.

“Bilbo?” a familiar voice asks, and the gentle baritone feels like balm against Bilbo’s sore heart, “Are you awake?”

It takes Bilbo a moment to gather enough energy to nod. Open his eyes and attempt to sit up.

Face what you caused, the voices suggest with a cackle. See how much pain you brought about. Can’t even do one thing right.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets. His voice sounds hoarse. He hasn’t spoken much recently – for a good reason.

A pained smile crosses the king’s face. Crown and fur coat are gone, and he looks more like the Thorin Bilbo has come to know through their journey. Though there are new lines on his face and new scars on his body.

And how many of those did you cause, the voices ask.

“How are you feeling?” Thorin asks and comes over to sit on a chair next to the bed. On the small table he sets two steaming mugs. “Tea,” he comments, “I think we both could do with some.”

Perhaps, Bilbo thinks. His fingers still feel so cold, though the voices are screaming at him that he doesn’t deserve this luxury. Shouldn’t indulge himself when others may need it more. When the greatest favor he could do anybody is to disappear.

Bilbo reaches for the cup, and the hot beverage manages to quieten the voices for a moment. Heat rushes down his throat, curls into his belly. And Bilbo can finally lift his head and look at Thorin.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters brokenly when he sees the unveiled worry in Thorin’s eyes, “I… lately. I don’t know… I’m not feeling like myself. It’s as if … somebody, something is … in my head.”

You’re going crazy, the voices mock. Poor, poor Bilbo Baggins. Can’t deal with just one battle. Will go insane at the drop of a hat. Really, what has he ever been but a burden and a drain?

He blinks and forces the voices back, because regardless of whether they are right or not, Thorin deserves better. Thorin deserves an explanation and not further heartbreak after having already endured so much grief.

“Your head injury,” Thorin offers, “Maybe it has not quite healed. I will ask Oin to check up on it. Visit him tomorrow, I will make sure he has time.”

Look at them, so concerned for you, the voices titter. If only they realized what a waste of space you truly are. But they will, in time. And then he’ll regret not having cast you to the rocks.

Bilbo manages a tiny, shaky nod. He sets the cup back and hides his hands under the blanket – they are beginning to tremble.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, leaning forward with concern shining in his eyes. “Are you -?”

“I’m sorry,” the hobbit mumbles and bows his head. Locks tumble forward and hide his face from view, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. I know it’s … it’s just causing trouble for you. And really, just, just, just don’t be so concerned. I’ll manage. Somehow. It’s just voices. I know that. I’ll handle that. Really. You’re all busy, you shouldn’t have to look after me as well. I can do that just fine. Please.”

A large dwarven hand sneaks into view. Settles atop the blanket, just above Bilbo’s own hand. And when Bilbo glances at Thorin in confusion he sees a watery glint in the king’s eyes. His heart gives a pained squeeze, but the voices laugh.

Your fault, they chide maliciously, everything is your fault.

“Bilbo,” says Thorin and his voice is louder and clearer and Bilbo clings onto it like a drowning man to a log, “Whatever you need, you will have it. I promised that, and I will not break that promise. And I will not leave you alone – whatever is haunting you, I have brought you here. You are only in Erebor because you decided to support me, all the terrors and desperation you experienced are my responsibility. I will not abandon you to face them on your own.”

Thorin hesitates, and Bilbo cannot tear his gaze away. His own heart trembles.

“I know I have not given you much proof to trust my word,” Thorin adds quietly, “But I beg you to do in this.”

And perhaps –

The world twists abruptly. A violent shudder runs through Bilbo’s body, and suddenly all strength vanishes from his muscles. His head hits the pillow with a thud, and for a moment he is left staring at the ceiling. And only after a deep breath he manages to tilt his head far enough to find Thorin’s frightened gaze again.

“Alright,” he whispers, because he can feel his body shutting down. The corners of his vision grow darker as exhaustion takes over. Not that he does not know what is to come –

“I will inform Oin,” Thorin says, “Tomorrow, he will be expecting you. Until then – “

And the smile that crosses his face lets warmth blossom in Bilbo’s chest.

“Sleep,” Thorin says and Bilbo sees the hope in his eyes. Hope that once morning comes the problems will have vanished. But as the darkness in Bilbo’s heart remains heavy, he only closes his eyes in defeat.

When he opens them, morning has come. But he does not feel rested, nor energetic. His body is heavy, his eyes dull. And his mind haunted by the horrors his mind taunted him with. Dreams full of death and desolation. Gory endings to dreams so dear to him and those his heart still reaches out to. Desperation and failure – a kingdom torn apart again, a mountain devoured by fire and a world overcome by blackness. Ruled by one worse than a dragon.

The voices laugh and frolic. This is what will come to pass, they cheer, this is what you are bringing about. Are you not proud, harbinger of evil? Whom will you murder first with one of your ill-devised plans?

Bilbo closes his eyes.

But, the voices continue cheerfully, you do know how to stop it. Don’t you?

***

“Dwalin,” Oin calls over his shoulder, “Are you on duty now?”

The tall dwarf stops with a hand on the doorknob. “Not until tonight, no.”

Oin hums, looking through his record of patients. “Could you perhaps tell Bilbo to come by? He was supposed to be here earlier already…”

Dwalin grunts in agreement. The hobbit wasn’t at breakfast and has looked rather terrible recently. “Anything serious?” Dwalin inquires.

And Oin hesitates.

Dwalin stops dead, dread abruptly coiling in his stomach. Their healer is known to be blunt and direct. Frilly speech is for politicians, Oin had always claimed. Healers – and warriors, Dwalin adds to himself – need to be understood in a few words only. Lives depend on it.

“Is he – “ Dwalin begins at the same as Oin mutters, “You haven’t heard?”

Dwalin shakes his head and presses his lips together unhappily.

“I, well,” Oin frowns and shakes his head, “I only have one side of the tale, and I think it’s not mine to share. Ask Bilbo or Thorin. He came in late last night and told me to do a check up on the burglar today.”

“Urgent?” Dwalin asks and relaxes a little. If Thorin did not inform him, it may not concern any affairs of state. But still, if their burglar’s health has taken a turn for the worse once more…

“Rather, though Thorin suggested to let our burglar have a full night’s sleep before,” Oin replies and Dwalin wonders what occurred. If it’s so pressing, why didn’t Thorin drag the hobbit here directly? And why is Oin so secretive all of a sudden?

“I’ll go and get him,” Dwalin announces shortly. It’s almost midday – even a hobbit ought to be awake by now.

He tries to convince himself that it’s probably something terribly mundane that has gotten Thorin concerned all the way up the stairs to the company’s private quarters. Thorin has a tendency to be overly worried at times – several memorable instances of Fili’s and Kili’s childhood come to mind where a bleeding knee had caused a frantic dash to the next healer. So perhaps it’s truly just something simple. A sprained ankle, a cold – hobbits are not as hardy as dwarves, this winter is fearsome and Bilbo has been looking under the weather.

But a grain of doubt remains in his heart.

Whatever Thorin has told Oin has unsettled their healer. And no simple cold, scraped knee or sprained appendage can do that.

Still. Perhaps there is a simple answer to the worry encroaching on his mind. Dwalin takes a deep breath before knocking on the closed door. The sound echoes down the corridor, clear and loud. However, no sound of movement comes from the other side of the heavy door.

With a frown Dwalin turns to look at the lock. Fairly simple – there hasn’t yet been time to bring the door up into proper shape. This one he can open within moments.

“Bilbo,” he calls and knocks again, louder this time, “Oi, Bilbo! Open the door!”

The hobbit might – against all likelihood – still be asleep. Or in the bath. Dwalin can imagine a myriad of reasons for Bilbo not to respond immediately. Though the silence continues and Dwalin’s calls remain unanswered.

Bilbo likes his privacy. And Dwalin would not dare to force his entry under any other circumstances. But today unease gnaws on his mind, and with a huff he reaches for the lock pick he keeps on him.

The lock opens almost instantly.

Dwalin grasps the handle. "Bilbo," he calls, "I'm coming in!"

The room remains silent when Dwalin pushes the door open. Dim light greets him - the fire in the fireplace has burned down, the chairs around it are empty as is the desk in the corner and the air feels oppressive.

"Bilbo?" Dwalin calls again. Nothing moves; and for a moment he wonders if perhaps the hobbit isn't even here.

But where would he go, especially if he isn't feeling well. Dwalin chases the thought away with a shake of his head. Then looks at the two remaining doors. One leads to the attached baths, the other to the sleeping room. No noise emerges from either.

Pressing his lips together, Dwalin marches toward the bedroom. Knocks, though this time the answering silence is no longer unexpected. Then he presses down the handle and steps inside.

The metallic tang to the air is the first thing he notices, the lump on the bed next. The hair on the back of his neck rises before his eyes have caught up.

Bilbo rests on the bed, atop the covers, curled toward the door. Unnaturally still.

"Bilbo?!" Dwalin shouts. Crosses the room in three long strides as his heart hitches. The form on the bed remains utterly still.

Abruptly terror floods his veins. Before he realizes what he's doing, he has taken the hobbit by the shoulders and is shaking the body. He feels bone under his hands, and much too little flesh around it.

"Oi, Bilbo! What's wrong!" he yells. Bilbo heads lolls to the side, his eyes remain close. And he is entirely too pale. Deathly pale.

Dwalin finally notices the stains discoloring the blankets. In the dim light they're almost invisible. On the night stand, he catches the metallic glint of a knife. An abandoned quill and a folded letter next to it.

And suddenly Dwalin understands. Terrified he glances down, sees the red trailing along Bilbo's arm, staining the sleeve of his tunic. The thin, but deep cut on the inside of his wrist. That still sluggishly bleeds.

Dwalin puts a practiced, but trembling hand against Bilbo's throat. Leans forward. Listens with baited breath - and catches a faint exhalation.

Alive. But time's running out.

With his heart pounding in his ears Dwalin straightens, rips off a long strip of the blanket. Ties it as tightly as he can around Bilbo's upper arm, silently praying for the hobbit to hang on. To spare them this tragedy.

Why, Dwalin wonders, terrified as he bandages the injury and wraps the hobbit in the blanket. Why would he do this? Where did they fail? What kind of friends are they to not have noticed until it's become too late?

Please don't die now, Dwalin thinks as he lifts the still body in his arms. Hang on just a little longer.

And then he runs.

***

The entire company has gathered in the antechamber by the time Oin finishes his ministrations. Tension suffuses the air, and Thorin especially appears pale. Balin has a hand on his brother's shoulder - and Dwalin stares at his hands, though the blood has since been washed off. The sight of Bilbo laid out on his bed, lifeless and bleeding, has been burnt onto the back of his eyelids.

Only Ori and Fili are talking quietly when the door finally opens. Oin steps out, looking harried, but not grieved. When he sees the expectant gazes cast his way, he takes a deep breath.

"He will live," he announces promptly. The fatigued lines on his face say it's been a close call, and Dwalin forces himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. He's been fast enough. Hasn't lost a precious moment too many, wondering if he should or should not open a locked door.

Oin clears his throat. "Physically, there is little reason not to anticipate a full recovery."

"But?" Dori asks immediately. And Oin frowns unhappily and shakes his head. "Whatever drove him to do this - I can treat the wounds, but I cannot heal what's haunting our burglar."

Dwalin swallows. Stares at his hands and only catches Thorin slump forward from the corner of his vision.

"Could it be something hidden?" Balin inquires, "He's unfamiliar with the mountain - perhaps the air or the food are causing him distress?"

"There is nothing physically wrong with him" Oin reaffirms.

"Perhaps the head injury?" Bombur mutters with a glance at Bifur, "They do strange things. Sometimes even years later."

Oin sighs and his shoulders slump. "I don't believe the head injury caused this. It has healed rather completely..."

"But can't it be?" Kili interrupts, almost hopeful, twisting the hem of his coat between his fingers, "Head injuries are not simple and can cause all sorts of troubles."

It would be a beautiful explanation, Dwalin thinks. One capable of absolving them of every responsibility for Bilbo's fate.

"They can, yes," Oin agrees without missing a beat, "But I think - and the other healers agree - that this seems unlikely. Injuries like this, I regret to say, come from a disturbance within... It was self-inflicted, wasn't it, Dwalin?"

Dwalin recalls the locked door. The undisturbed rooms and wearily raises his head to look at Gloin. "It was."

He has seen murders masked as suicides. He knows what to look for. And Oin obviously did not expect any other answer either. They have seen these things happen before. They know better than to hope for an absolving explanation.

"Why would he do that?" Ori mumbles unhappily.

"Well," Oin announces unhappily, "I'm afraid we need to find out what our burglar was thinking. Also, we found this in his coat pocket."

And Oin procures a small, golden ring.

"What's that?" Bofur asks, leaning forward. Oin places the innocuous golden item down on a table. It sounds heavy. Pure gold then, but still nothing special.

"Bilbo said it made him invisible," Fili provides hesitantly, "He used it a lot when we were captured. And to avoid Smaug as well, I think."

"Though he said it didn't work on the dragon, didn't he?" Ori asks, a frown on his face. A cold shiver runs down Dwalin's spine. Something feels wrong. Bofur frowns as well, and Balin appears deep in thought.

Dori wrings his hands. "He didn't look very good in the dungeons..."

"It's just a ring," Gloin protests, "What does it have to do with anything? He's welcome to any kind of souvenir he wants to keep."

Thorin looks at his hands. Dwalin purses his lips. Just a ring. Just some gold. The line of thought is too familiar for comfort, though Bilbo is unlikely to be affected by the gold. But something doesn't feel right - something is off.

Otherwise Bilbo wouldn't be lying next door, asleep with bandages wrapped around his wrists.

Nori clears his throat. "There are cursed rings," he supplies.

Of course they know that cursed items exist. Middle Earth is home to more than a few curious and magical artifacts.

"I was thinking it was a bit curious that the ring merely made its bearer invisible," Nori continues quietly, "It doesn't seem too surprising that in return for providing its bearer with a special skill, the ring would take something in return. Few magical items, after all can be used without ramifications."

The ensuing silence is heavy and only broken when Kili mutters, "But it looks completely harmless."

And that makes Dwalin wonder as well. He has seen magical items, and many can be identified at a glance. That this ring hides its true character -

It may be completely innocent. It may be pure chance.

But he has a bad feeling about it.

"Balin," Thorin says, "See to it that the ring is kept somewhere out of sight. Have nobody touch it until we know what exactly it is."

***

Three days pass before Oin decides to cut down on the sleeping potions and allows Bilbo to wake up. And no matter how much the company wishes to be there, Oin will not allow for any but medical personnel to be in the room.

It makes sense. But at the same time Thorin is terrified.

What if Bilbo cannot remember? What if he remembers and now hates the dwarves for having brought him into this position? What if he still wants to die?

Sun has already set when a messenger brings word from Oin. The message is short, but makes Thorin's heart best faster.

"Awake and responsive. Cause still unknown. Visit at your leisure."

Thorin immediately abandons all documents waiting for lecture or signature and barely manages to stop himself from running down the corridors. He ignores the councilors calling him on the way. Only inclines his head, but neither slows nor stops.

When he closes his eyes he still can see Bilbo standing on the wall, the howling wind tearing at his dark tunic and desperation twisting his features.

He never wants to see him like that again.

The healers jump out of his way when he storms into the sickrooms. Oin catches sight of them, but he's cleaning out some pointy utensils and only inclines his head. "Second door on the right. Should be awake and eating."

Thorin realizes he must look frightening, and forces himself to display some restraint. Thank Oin. Don't run. Don't show the other healers just how terrified you still are.

But once the door shuts behind him, the world narrows down to him and the pale figure sitting up among the pillows. In the beige tunic Bilbo looks thinner and whiter than Thorin has ever seen him, but there is a light flush in his cheeks and glittering green eyes greet Thorin.

"Tho -" Bilbo starts, though Thorin has already crossed the room and only at the very last moment stops himself from drawing Bilbo in an embrace.

"Bilbo," he exclaims, "You are alright?!"

Bilbo frowns and looks away. "Getting better," he mumbles and Thorin sees the white bandages wrapped around the hobbit's thin wrist. Relief floods him, and for the first time he has a notion that things may turn out right in the end.

His knees abruptly go weak and he has to sit down. When his head clears he sees Bilbo watching him with confusion.

"Are you quite alright?" The hobbit asks. His voice sounds different from that time on the wall as well. No longer do grief and desperation color it. Instead he for once sounds a bit closer to the hobbit they first met again.

"Very much so," Thorin mumbles and then gathers himself. "And better now. You truly scared me, Master Baggins."

"Bilbo," the hobbit corrects immediately, "I rather think we've seen each other in terrible enough situations to forgo the formalities at this point." He smiles wryly and Thorin cannot stop his lips from twitching in response.

"Of course," he agrees and his heart feels lighter. Even if Bilbo ought to resent him - he cannot help being glad the hobbit does not.

"But I'm being rude," Thorin says, "How are you feeling? Am I disturbing you?"

"No, no," Bilbo is quick to reply, "Truly, I don't think Oin is willing to leave me alone for too long."

"You scared us all," Thorin says quietly.

Bilbo purses his lips. "I know. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Then forgive me. I know the question is terrible. But: why?" Thorin finally asks and his heart is in his throat again, racing away and suffocating him at the same time.

Bilbo turns his gaze at his hands resting atop the off-white blanket. His shoulders sink a little and Thorin wants to retract his question. But he remembers Bilbo's terrified words atop the wall too clearly.

Perhaps now Bilbo can tell them how to help him. Perhaps now he can answer.

"I ... I don't remember it all too clearly, but when you pulled me back on the wall," Bilbo says, "I mentioned voices, didn't I?"

"You did," Thorin confirms. His voice sounds choked, but Bilbo does not look up.

"Though so," he mutters and then continues a little louder, "I don't know when it started. But I kept hearing voices, and they were getting louder. Telling me that it was all my fault and that I was only being a burden."

"But that's wrong," Thorin immediately protests, "We wouldn't have reclaimed Erebor without you, Bilbo!"

The hobbit's lips twitch unhappily. "I know. Though it almost went wrong, didn't it?"

"I was mad from the gold," Thorin exclaims horrified at the implications, "Not a word of what I said them had even a grain of truth in it! I wish I could take them back - but never, never for a moment believe you bear any responsibility for what happened. I didn't give you a choice. It's my fault and mine alone."

Bilbo glances up with a small frown. "I disagree and I'm aware a number of dwarves does at well. But -" he holds up a hand to starve off Thorin's protests, "at first I was aware the voices were twisting my feelings and words. Logically I knew the orcs and Smaug had been the ones to kill so many. But the voices persisted."

Bilbo's eyes close. "They kept insisting and steadily grew louder. At some point I found I was unable to block them out any longer. I tried to sleep, but they intruded there as well."

Nightmares, Thorin thinks and his heart goes out to the slight creature before him. Dark shadows linger under Bilbo's eyes and have for a long time.

"They kept growing louder," Bilbo repeats quietly, "And while I knew I shouldn't, I think at some point I started believing them. Or maybe I just didn't know what to do anymore. It's all a blur in my head, and the only thing I remember clearly is wanting it to end."

Thorin can only wonder how they missed this. How they could have left Bilbo alone for so long that some voices could have driven him to desperation.

"And now?" Thorin asks gently.

Bilbo sighs. "They ... Aren't gone. But they're quieter. As if distanced. And they don't react any longer."

"React?" Thorin inquires.

Bilbo grimaces. "They used to react directly whenever somebody talked to me. Twisting their words. Or mine. Laughing at me... It was very distracting. Now, they're more or less an echo of things they've said before. Nothing new, and sometimes what they say doesn't even match the situation. It's much easier to ignore them like this."

Thorin swallows. The hair on his arm stands, and he cannot imagine the horror of having a voice in his head talk back to him. He's all too familiar with surges of guilt and crippling fear - but to have these take shape and speak to him directly.

"When did they start?" he asks quietly. Perhaps, he thinks, the head injury caused this. He's seen similar cases before - though he does not want to recall these for he knows how they ended.

Bilbo purses his lips. "I don't really know," he replies, "They just kept growing louder."

"After you received the blow to your head?" Thorin suggests.

An immediate shake of the head is his answer. "No," Bilbo returns with conviction, "Much earlier. I think perhaps even before we entered Erebor, but that's around the first time I remember consciously taking note of them."

Which means they had been torturing Bilbo when Thorin went and threw new accusations at his head. He cringes.

"But I do think they were there before. Even in the dungeons of Mirkwood," Bilbo adds.

Thorin recalls the trinket. Something cold runs down his spine. "There," he clears his throat, "Oin found your magic ring in your pocket. Nori thought it may be cursed..."

"What? Where is it?! Why did you take it?!" Bilbo shouts abruptly. Thorin flinches back. Blinks in surprise, as the color abruptly drains from the hobbit's face. His eyes widen.

Thorin finds his fear mirrored in Bilbo's eyes.

The hobbit bites down on his lower lip. "I'm afraid," he says quietly, "It may be."

***

Erebor's library does not answer the riddle of the ring. But now the ring makes them uncomfortable and Bilbo - while obviously torn - agrees to have it stowed deep in a sealed stone chamber until Gandalf can come and inspect it.

It's mid-winter when the wizard makes his way to the mountain. Bilbo has been healing, slowly. This time, they make sure he is at every meal and not alone for too long. Thorin finds he cannot sleep unless he sees the hobbit at least once a day.

Which results in one or two awkward late night visits with Bilbo in his nightclothes and once Thorin's crown is lost under the bed. But Thorin's heart grows lighter and Bilbo regains his color. The ring is almost forgotten.

When shown, Gandalf does not dare to touch it, and his face settles into a grim frown. In the small chamber, Thorin takes a deep breath and feels Bilbo next to him shudder. Being in the room alone has etched deep lines into his face, and Thorin wonders if the voices have returned.

"I am not certain, and I hope I am wrong," he mutters before he turns back to Bilbo and Thorin, "Are you sure?"

Thorin finds himself losing patience. Bilbo has answered this question at least three times already. Why is Gandalf so hesitant? Normally the wizard draws his conclusions quicker.

"Yes," Bilbo replies evenly, "The voices started whispering a while after I picked it up and grew stronger when I wore it for a long time. And, I think, it made use of my own weaknesses. Said terrible things and gave me nightmares."

"Nightmares? What did you see?" Gandalf inquires, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. The dim light is casting eerie shadows on his face.

Bilbo swallows, and Thorin wants to tell him he needn't answer. Gandalf is a guest in their kingdom - they can send him packing.

"The battle," Bilbo says quietly, "That everybody died. That the world turned dark all of a sudden. It was unlike nighttime - there was a constant reddish glow to everything."

Thorin wants to tell him to stop. But he sees that Gandalf has grown pale. Paler than he ever saw the wizard. And dread, once more, coils in his stomach.

"Anything else?" Gandalf asks, "Did you see anything else?"

Bilbo frowns. "I... It was very strange. Certainly dreamlike, though it did not feel like it. I think at one point I saw a giant, burning eye."

A century has passed since Thorin read the histories under the watchful eyes of his tutors. He cannot suppress a flinch. And neither can Gandalf keep the dread from showing on his face.

Bilbo looks between them. "What is it?" he asks, "Gandalf? Thorin? What is wrong with my ring?"

His voice breaks Thorin's heart. It is as if Bilbo already knows that there is something fundamentally wrong. Wrong, when things should finally turn right for him.

"It's not certain yet," Gandalf announces firmly, "I need to find answers first. I may be wrong."

"But what do you think?" Bilbo asks and takes a step forward, "Gandalf? Tell me. If it's something bad, I need to know. I brought the ring here, after all."

Gandalf looks at Bilbo and Thorin thinks he can see the grief on his face. He takes a step forward and puts a hand on Bilbo's shoulders.

"I have a duty to this kingdom," he says, "I need to know what I guard."

Gandalf gives a small nod. And then takes a deep breath. "Very well. The clues all point to one answer, that I did not believe possible until a moment ago. This may very well be the one ring."

Thorin draws a sharp breath - his guess was right, but hearing it confirmed by a wizard turns the threat immediate. He feels Bilbo flinch at his side.

"Sauron's ring?" The hobbit asks quietly, "This is the one ring?"

Gandalf clears his throat. "As I said, I am not yet certain. If it is, there are a lot of question that need to be answered. But ..."

He does not need to complete the sentence. If Bilbo has seen a red, flaming eye in his dreams, then it is proof enough. Thorin swallows.

"It probably is," Bilbo concludes drily. Wrings his hands and looks to Thorin, "I am so sorry for bringing this here. If I had known, I would have never brought something so evil into your kingdom. If you want to, I will take it and go..."

Thorin tightens his grip on Bilbo's shoulder and shakes his head. "No," he interrupts firmly, "You didn't know, and I will not let you carry it anywhere. The roads are dangerous enough, but with such an item in your possession..."

It would spell immediate death. Indeed, it is a miracle Bilbo carried the ring all the way to Erebor. Had the servants of the enemy known -

"Smaug," Thorin exclaims abruptly, and ice floods his veins, "He knew you had it."

Bilbo nods in confusion and Thorin turns to Gandalf. "Then the enemy," he utters, feeling himself pale, "The enemy may know. That Bilbo has the ring."

Gandalf presses his lips together. Bows his head. "I'm afraid that is possible."

Bilbo, white as a sheet, stutters: "But th- that means they'll... He'll be looking for me?" His voice hitches on the last word.

"You must not leave the mountain," Gandalf declares, "Go no further than Dale, and never alone. Thorin, promise me you will watch out for your burglar. I need to find answers - I cannot stay. But Thorin, you must keep Bilbo and the ring safe until I return."

Thorin inclines his head. His heart breaks for Bilbo - unknowingly having been preyed on by the greatest evil of their age, and now denied his home after everything he already suffered.

"I will," he vows.

Outside, a storm is rising.

  _Fin_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating anything in forever. Work's been busy. Life's been busy (Chile was awesome!). But I have high hopes for November and new inspirations from the third movie (and the promotional materials). XD


	32. Hurts that linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have all survived the battle and Bilbo has stayed in Erebor. But Thorin's temper and Bilbo's recovery do not mix well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written for the Mizimel fanbook in early 2014. The theme was "jewels" and ... the story approaches that topic by crab-walking alongside it. 
> 
> No warnings for this story, except for angst and an ending that is rather bittersweet than happy.

The sun is low in the sky, painting it in shades of orange and gold. Bilbo stops for a moment to catch his breath and bask in those last rays of daylight – his ribs still ache, though the injuries he sustained in the battle are healing. Yet Oin remains worried, and so was Bard during today’s short meeting.

Bilbo knows he is paler and thinner than he should, but food is scarce and he is not all that hungry. The nightmares are probably to blame for his pallor. If there was one night he could sleep without waking to memories either of the battle or of Thorin dangling him from the parapets, it would help.

Perhaps today’s exertion of hiking to the camp outside the ruins of Laketown and back might have exhausted him enough for at least a few hours without dreams.

He closes his eyes for a moment. The sun is warm on his skin, and once winter is over he will return to the Shire and its green, rolling hills. He looks forward to spending tranquil days under a clear blue sky, gazing out over Hobbiton with a pipe – far, far away from Erebor’s dramatic grandeur and terrible memories. Maybe then the nightmares will finally fade.

A cold gust of wind rushes over the mountainside, pulling at his coat and hair, and Bilbo shivers. Winter here is only beginning and already ice is collecting at the shores of the Long Lake. The clouds collecting in the north are grey and heavy – Oin has predicted for the first snows to come soon. At least within the mountain it will be warm.

“Bilbo, there you are!” somebody calls and Bilbo turns to see Kili waving at him. The archer has his bow slung over his shoulder and is grinning – his arm must be improving then. Bilbo is happy to see it. There was a time when the young dwarf’s prospects were far from promising.

“Come on, let’s get inside before it is dark and people start wondering where we are,” Kili says, and then looks at the rolls of parchment Bilbo has under his arm.

“How was the meeting with Bard today?” he asks.

“Same as always,” Bilbo replies with a shrug, “Though with the Master gone, he breathes a little easier, I think. They want to send another ship south before the lake freezes completely – he is worried that we’ll all be cut off for months.”

“That might happen. Thorin told us winter in Erebor could be fierce – and especially now they do need a lot of supplies to rebuild Dale,” Kili says, and Bilbo nods along, thinking that Erebor, too, will face shortages.

“Though I do suppose they’ll need more gold for that,” Kili finishes, and Bilbo sighs. He’s not looking forward to approaching Thorin on that matter – the King has been in a foul mood recently, caused by overenthusiastic courtiers and returning nobles demanding to be reinstalled. The gold madness is gone, but Bilbo can’t help but be wary when he sees Thorin gazing darkly at the jewels they are buying supplies and peace with.

“Well, we’re going to profit from that, too, so it shouldn’t be a problem,” Kili returns, optimistic, “Uncle knows that as well, don’t worry. But why didn’t Balin go with you – he normally does, doesn’t he?”

“Apparently a group of particularly argumentative dwarves from the Iron Hills arrived today. Firebeards, I think? Anyway, Balin was needed to help Thorin fend them off.” Bilbo tugs the collar of his coat higher so that most of his throat is covered, hiding the shadows of healing bruises. The wind gets colder and sharper as they ascend. The giant statues guarding Erebor’s gates tower above them, statements of wealth and intimidation at the same time.

“Ugh, yes, that help was certainly needed, then,” Kili replies with a grimace, “I met one of them once, and that was already one too many. If the entire clan is here…” He shudders.

The guards salute them as they pass the gates. It's strange and new for both of them. Bilbo has been used to a degree of scrutiny from gossiping neighbors, but these gazes are different. To the returning dwarves they are not just Kili and Bilbo, but the prince and a traitor-turned-hero.

Bilbo knows that the returning dwarves are skeptical of his place in the kingdom – it is one of the reasons why he longs to return. The company may be the family of his choosing, but at the end of the day he is a hobbit among dwarves.

He's almost waiting for something to happen – for a dwarf to voice his malcontent at having a hobbit, especially the one that dared to steal the Arkenstone – treated this reverently in their kingdom. The fact that Thorin and the company understand the madness brought on by gold sickness and Bilbo’s motives does not mean that the recently returned dwarves do as well.

But now he must speak to Thorin on behalf of Bard.

***

Thorin has spent the majority of the afternoon discussing with and shouting at the Firebeard clan heads. Being just as hard-headed as Thorin, they have been shouting back for just as long and loudly. Needless to say, tempers are frayed. There had also been other, demanding petitioners during court session – the majority of them former nobles of Erebor, at least according to their own claims; Thorin recognizes few – and Thorin swears he will murder the next one to walk up to him and ask for their due reward.

He hasn’t won Erebor back so that those slimy nobles can march here and demand they be given their inheritance, plus interest, plus whatever else they desire based on claims nobody can verify. His grinds his teeth audibly – at least the Firebeards have retired for tonight.

Justice is easier imagined than spoken, a truth Thorin is familiar with. And though he has learned to beware of his own temper, he cannot help the fact that his blood boils when he marches back toward his own chambers, chattering courtiers on his heels.

“… a new tapestry,” one is saying, “Of course, this should be inlaid with gemstones as befitting. One of Lord Frar’s entourage possesses just that skill, and I hear he is …”

“I heard there were still jewels in Dale’s treasury – apparently a dwarf from the Iron Hills discovered them, and I wonder why they keep asking Erebor for gold, when they obviously – “

Thorin does his best to block out the voices – his head is spinning as it is. He wishes they would stop talking of gold and treasure, wishes a moment would pass without a demand being directed at him.

“Dale plans to send another boat south for supplies and food,” a voice cuts through Thorin’s unsettled mind, “They need gold from Erebor to afford these, but they are willing to -”

And it is all he can stand.

“No!” Thorin roars, whirls around in a fit of blinding fury, “I will not part with a single more coin, not if the end of all days was upon us! I have given and given and given and what have we seen in return?”

He can hear the blood pulsing in his ears, and he knows he must appear mad, but he cannot stand the voices any longer. “Every day the claims grow bolder, every day they come back and demand more and more, and one day we will have nothing left! I have not endured war and fire to see the fortune of my people stolen away by greedy men and treacherous elves! I will not – “

“Stop! Uncle!” Fili shouts, and Thorin hadn’t even noticed his nephew’s presence, “Uncle, stop it!”

Thorin stops, surprised, to see Fili look at him, pale and shocked, and Thorin blinks. He had not meant to fly into a rage, certainly, but the madness is past, and his temper is not new. Then he realizes that Fili is not looking at him, but at the person Thorin has been yelling it.

Dread floods his chest. It cannot be -

“Mahal, Bilbo – “ Thorin breathes, and lowers his hands slowly, unclenching his fingers, but there is no reaction. Bilbo stares at him with terrified, wide-open eyes set in a face as white as paper.

“Bilbo,” Thorin mutters, and his voice hitches. He didn’t mean to harm Bilbo. Not Bilbo who already sacrificed so much for him. The hobbit, however, remains frozen in place – doesn’t even appear to be breathing.

“Fetch Oin!” Fili orders, running up to them, “You there, fetch Oin! Everybody else– out! Out!”

The courtiers scatter, muttering amongst themselves, but Thorin doesn’t hear them. Does barely notice Fili stopping few paces behind Bilbo, uncertain all of a sudden. Horror holds him in place – what has he done? Has he not sworn to never again raise a hand against the hobbit? Has he not promised Bilbo would be safe?

And now the hobbit is as pale as he was that day out on the wall, staring at Thorin with the same terror in his eyes. Thorin remembers all too well how Bilbo’s grieved determination had turned into fear, when the mad king had threatened to throw him to his death.

“Uncle?” Fili asks, “Uncle, is –“

Back then he’d shouted at Bilbo, too.

He hasn’t meant to summon the memories. Hasn’t meant to reawaken a terror Bilbo has pretended to have forgiven and moved past – not when Thorin knows how these events haunt their victims. Not when Thorin has observed how pale Bilbo has become, how he avoids rowdy dinners and flinches at physical contact.

“Bilbo?” Thorin whispers, wishing for any type of response – anything to let him know that he hasn’t with one careless action completely destroyed the brave soul before him.

He doesn’t hear Fili suck in a sharp breath, before looking helplessly for Oin.

“Bilbo, I am sorry. So sorry. I promised no harm would come to you – and I meant it,” Thorin continues, forcing himself to steady his voice. Hoping against hope those calming words might draw Bilbo from the nightmare he must be seeing. “I still mean it. Had I known it was you, I would never have shouted. I promise I will not make the same mistake again – I never meant to harm you. Please, Bilbo, forgive me.”

Bilbo gives a soft gasp. His eyes refocus for a split second, before his knees buckled and he collapses like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Fili shouts in surprise, Thorin leaps forward to catch him, heart in his throat – but Bilbo doesn’t scream or fight; the hobbit is deeply unconscious. Thorin sinks to his knees, draws the slight body to his chest. There is a sense of fragility to Bilbo's unmoving form he does not like - and up close he can see the memory of those stressful last weeks written all over the hobbit's pallid face.

“Where is Oin?” he asks, as Fili leans closer, concern on his nephew’s face. His heir stares at Bilbo – “Will he… is he….” But Fili can’t voice what he fears; instead he jumps up, “I’ll look for Oin. I’ll … be back in a moment… just … just – I’ll be back.”

And Thorin barely manages to shout after him to bring Oin to Bilbo’s rooms.  

His chest clenches - he shouldn't have asked Bilbo to play ambassador to Dale, not matter how skilled the hobbit is and how well along he gets with Bard. The scar of Bilbo’s head injury is still visible, and there are finger-shaped shadows on his throat.

Thorin feels his heart break. He would give the Arkenstone to undo it, but he still remembers the soft flesh of Bilbo's throat under his fingers - one hand had been enough to wrap around it. And now, once again, he has to realize just how small that body truly is when he puts an arm under Bilbo's knees and lifts him up.

***

Laid out on the lavish bed, Bilbo looks small and fragile. With a pained frown Thorin gazes down on the still form, while Oin gravitates around them, lifting limbs and checking Bilbo’s eyes and pulse. His expression is unhappy, and his words give little confidence.

“Too skinny,” Oin mutters, and pulls back a sleeve to reveal an arm that is more bone than flesh, “Much too skinny. He hasn’t looked that bad since Mirkwood, and we were starving then.”

Thorin purses his lips. They have no abundance of food, but they are not starving. Why then would Bilbo –

“Probably nausea,” Oin adds with a frown, “Lack of sleep and I’d guess nightmares, too. Would explain both, the weight loss and his pallor.”

They have both seen warriors suffer this after battle. His own nephews, Thorin is certain, do not sleep without interruption. They try to uphold their cheer, and at least they have each other to lean on. Their uncle has failed them; Thorin has to acknowledge that, no matter how painful.

Bilbo has no such support. His supposed friends have already once stood by and watched as he was cast out and almost murdered in the process. It is unsurprising their hobbit is reluctant to trust them.

“What can we do?” Thorin asks with a heavy heart.

Oin rearranges the covers around Bilbo – the hobbit remains blissfully unconscious, testament to his exhaustion. Then he straightens with a sigh. “You know how it is in these cases,” Oin says, “Healing must come from within. There is little that can be done but offer comfort and companionship.”

What he does not say is that theirs is a companionship that may not be helpful.

Thorin wishes there was something he could do – he would offer Bilbo his head if it helped. He has told the hobbit he would gladly bear whatever punishment the hobbit deemed necessary, but Bilbo had shaken his head then, said he was glad they had come to understand his reasoning and never addressed the matter again. Too kind and too forgiving, Thorin thinks, and now he is paying for it.

“Might the elves have some medicine or technique?” Thorin asks. For Bilbo’s sake, he would swallow his dislike.

Oin shrugs. “While they have other techniques, in the end those amount to the same as ours. Those nightmares cannot be chased out by herb or enchantment.”

That would be too easy. Thorin is not so lucky that his troubles can be solved by a spell, but he wishes that for once, this fate would only affect him alone and not also those around him. Bilbo does not deserve to suffer for Thorin’s wrongdoings.

“A change of place, then?” he suggests.

Oin nods. “Aye, but I can only think of two places that might provide the peace for healing – and the roads will not open until spring.”

Rivendell and the Shire. Thorin sighs – he knows the company does not want to lose their burglar. He himself wishes Bilbo could stay at Erebor. But looking at the frail form resting on the bed, he knows that it cannot be.

***

He is warm and comfortable, but he does not know where he is. His head feels stuffy and his chest aches – his entire body feels as if he’d been through Mirkwood all over. Dimly he realizes somebody nearby is humming, though he cannot make out the words.

At first his eyelids stick together and won’t open, and maybe he makes a sound. When the world swims into focus, the humming stops, and Thorin is watching him with unveiled concern. Bilbo realizes he is back in his quarters, and there is a fire roaring in the fireplace, tinting everything in shades of flickering orange.

He tries to push himself up – his memories are blurry, but he probably fainted or did something equally embarrassing. Thorin reaches out to stop the movement and Bilbo can’t help flinching.

Then he can only watch as Thorin seems to shrink into himself. “I … I’m sorry,” the King mumbles, “I meant no harm.”

Bilbo’s heart aches, because he knows that. He knows, and yet his body betrays him, and –

And it was Thorin shouting at him, he remembers abruptly. Shouting and raising his hands, and he couldn’t help but recall another time when Thorin’s features had twisted with rage and madness. Suddenly, his throat feels impossibly dry, and with a trembling hand he reaches for the water.

Thorin makes no gesture to help him, though it breaks his heart. Bilbo would like nothing better than to tell him to go ahead – but he knows it won’t end well. There is a splinter of fear remaining deep in his heart, and now it is pulsing with remembered terror.

“I did not mean to harm you,” Thorin says eventually, “Had I known it was you, I would never have shouted. But, I suppose, it is futile – I should not have shouted in any case. In this I am my own worst enemy.”

And there is nothing to say, because Thorin is right.

“If there is anything you wish for – any way I can make up for this –“ the King continues, but Bilbo is already shaking his head.

“I have everything I need,” he replies, though that is only half the truth. What he needs is his smial – the blue sky and the lush green of the Shire. The unchanging light of the mountain leaves him unsettled and the dreary cold outside seeps into his soul.

“Still, I would see you not missing a thing,” Thorin returns, “Whatever you wish for, if I can provide it, I will do so. It is the least you deserve.”

“Your people need your care more than I do, Thorin,” Bilbo answers quietly.

Thorin sighs, and lets his head hang. For a moment, the silence between them is almost companionable; Thorin bowed by guilt and regret, and Bilbo by exhaustion and lingering trauma.

Then the King directs a sad smile at the erstwhile burglar. “I would see you laugh again,” he tells Bilbo, “I would take back my words at the gate. I would take back my treatment of you at the outset of our journey.”

He sighs. “There was a time when I dreamt of today. Then I thought we’d all be rejoicing – with the returnees happy to help rebuilding, with a stable peace with our neighbors. I imagined Kili and Fili happy and content. At times I even thought to ask you to stay…”

Thorin shakes his head, and it warms Bilbo’s heart that Thorin cares so much. He wishes he could recover, but he knows it cannot be.

“My dreams were the same,” Bilbo replies. And he thinks about those nights when he felt safe at Thorin’s side. Save and loved, and he wishes he could bring back that time.

“We can’t change what happened,” Bilbo continues, trying to bring at least some enthusiasm into his words, even if his heart is breaking, “But we can still dream of the future.”

***

It is a bright morning in early spring that sees all of the company assembled at the gate. A light dust of frost still covers the ground, but already the sun is warm. The once desolate ground shows first signs of recovery, with greens springing up in cracks and gaps.

It is a good day for travel.

A light breeze is playing with Bilbo’s curls as he stops before Thorin one last time with a small smile on his lips. With a heavy heart Thorin closes the distance and draws Bilbo into his arms, the way he did long ago on top of the Carrock. And like then, Bilbo stiffens before relaxing, and returning the embrace.

“May the Valar watch over you, dearest of all hobbits,” Thorin says, and his eyes are burning, “And if you ever need aid, do not hesitate to call on us. We will never forget what you did for us, and we will remain forever in your debt.”

Bilbo smiles, then, and even though there are tears in his eyes, some of his old light has returned to them, too. “Thank you. Thank you all so much. I … I wish I could stay, but there is a home I must return to.”

Then he draws a deep breath. “So farewell, my friends, farewell. Do not look so sad – I may be leaving now, but if I can, I will return.”

And with that they all forget propriety. Kili and Fili are the first to surge forward, throw themselves at Bilbo, sobbing and begging him to make this a promise. Ori follows hot on their heels, and eventually Dwalin has to step closer to steady them. They are shouting and crying and laughing at the same time, and from behind the group Gandalf watches with a smile.

This is, Thorin thinks later, as he watches the group grow smaller in the distance, a parting. And they do not know what the future holds. But for once the bright blue sky overhead looks like a good omen.

_Fin_


	33. Through the Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo bursts into the final confrontation between Azog and Thorin - and falls through the ice after Azog. While the pale orc dies, Thorin - badly hurt - manages to pull Bilbo from the water. 
> 
> Kili is the one to discover the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Syxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syxx/pseuds/Syxx) gave me the prompt "Bilbo falls through the ice" quite a long time ago. I believe even before the BotFA trailer had been released. Since it clicked with the confrontation between Thorin and Azog...
> 
> Warnings: Character Death!  
> Violence. Rather short?

Azog’s primitive weapon misses Thorin by inches. The ice under Thorin’s feet cracks and splinters, he fights to keep his balance and breath. The rising sun casts long shadows, the ice groans. Below Ravenhill the sounds of battle grow dim, but Thorin does not know if it heralds victory or defeat. His blood now longer roars in his ears, only the exhausted drum of his heart continues. Hot blood coats his side from when he wasn’t quick enough to escape Azog’s blade, the throb distracting and his knees strangely weak.

Azog feints to the left, but Thorin does not have the strength to block his attack, instead sidestepping it, throwing half-hearted slice towards Azog’s shoulder. He almost slips on the ice, and Azog easily twists out of reach.

His breath comes in short, hard gasp and his mind is nearly blank. Azog, and he does not dare to think beyond. Not of what he has caused, not of the many that lie dead. Not of Fili who paid so dearly for Thorin’s own blindness.

He almost misses Azog’s next attack, only remembering to roll out of the way in the very last moment. A part of him wonders if he shouldn’t just give up. Close his eyes, let Azog take his head and have some other become the one to slay the pale orc.

It is tempting. But then Azog grunts and smirks and Thorin cannot allow him victory. Not for the sake of his own life tainted by the wrongs he committed. But for the harm Azog brought his kin and friends, for the life of his grandfather, the disappearance of his father. For Fili.

“Why do you struggle?” Azog taunts, “I smell your exhaustion. You smell of sweat and fear. Like your grandfather did. Like the whelp did.”

Thorin clenches his aching fingers tighter around Orcrist’s hilt, ignoring the throbbing in his raw knuckles. Coated in a stiffening mix of blood and grim, his hand has grown numb, as have his legs. But when Azog next swings, Thorin dives underneath the chain and aims for his gut.

The stroke opens a small cut in Azog’s unprotected side and Azog roars. Thorin has to stumble back clumsily, his feet sliding out under him, as Azog forces the chain to whip sideways and the stone swings so fast toward Thorin, he has no choice but to jump.

His feet slip the moment he lands, he falls backwards and all air escapes his lungs when his back hits the ice. Fire races up from his side and something shifts, and it feels so fundamentally wrong that he cannot breathe. For a moment he stares dizzily into the brightening morning sky, hears Azog grunt, the ominous crunch of the ice and thinks his fate is sealed.

Then a small shape tackles Azog with an angry shout, and Azog grunts in surprise, and then they’re both thrown off their feet.

For a split second Thorin wonders if he hallucinates. Another time, with smoke in the air veiling the stars and –

Azog roars in anger, he hears a gasp from a familiar voice and manages to push himself up to his knees to see Azog fling Bilbo away. The hobbit slides across the ice, blood in his hair, but struggling to find purchase. Azog is still down and Thorin throws himself forward.

At the very last moment Azog blocks the strike aimed for his head and from the corner of his eye Thorin spies Bilbo getting to his feet. Azog uses his distraction, forces him back and away and rises, ignoring the cracking ice. Underneath their feet, the ice is marred by crack lines and Thorin knows it will not hold them much longer.

And Bilbo is running back toward them. “Stay back!” Thorin yells, and only barely manages to escape decapitation by Azog. In reply Bilbo casts a glare at Thorin and dives for Azog’s thigh. The pale orc dances out of reach, and abruptly the ice gives.

Thorin freezes and Azog roars in fury as the ice under his feet crumbles away. He flings out his arms, wavers pathetically, seeking out stable ground. Thousands of small cracks run through the ice – and when Azog finds himself stable, his eyes meet Thorin’s and they both know what will happen.

A strange sense of calm suffuses Thorin’s body as sets down Orcrist and reaches for the stone still embedded in the ice near his feet. Azog yet holds the other end of the chain, daring not even to move to toss it away, the ice still cracking under his feet and black water lapping hungrily at the edges of already existing holes.

Thorin throws the stone at Azog, ignoring the fierce, protesting ache in his side and takes a calm step backward. The pale orc’s eyes burn with fury, he scrambles, but his weight is too much. With a thunderous series of cracks and pops the ice shatters and Thorin watches as black water swallows Azog’s struggling form in seconds.

Revealing Bilbo, just a few inches beyond where Azog had been standing, the ice under his feet a white, splintered mess. Thorin’s heart stops.

“No!” Thorin shouts and starts forward. Guilt surges in his chest, his eyes meet Bilbo’s for a split second and he knows throwing the stone only guaranteed Azog’s end at the price of Bilbo. But he hadn’t known, had forgotten about him for a moment and he would never have –

The ice breaks apart and Bilbo screams. Thorin throws himself flat on the ice, sliding forward on his stomach, just as Bilbo’s scream cuts off, swallowed by black water. His heart races and he plunges his arm down, not caring about the icy bite of the water or the sharp pressure of ice against his biceps.

Blindly, he grasps for anything, fingers numb, his thoughts racing. Hobbits don’t swim, he recalls Bilbo telling him, and even if the river isn’t deep here, it’s still deep enough for a hobbit to drown, and Thorin frantically stretches out his arm, praying for a miracle, already trying to shrug off his coat with one arm.

His fingers brush past something and he grips it, pulling desperately. It jerks against his hold, and small fingers wrap sluggishly around his arm. Thorin’s heart skips a beat and he pulls, ignoring the sharp throb running through his side.

Bilbo’s skin is cold under his fingers, but the hobbit struggles weakly as he pulls him up. Thorin’s side burns, and he pants, but the soaked, shuddering form of the burglar rests on the fragile ice next to him, gasping and coughing.

A cold gust of wind passes them, and Thorin ignores the blackness rising behind his eyelids, instead pushing himself up on his elbows, when the ice creaks in protest. They need to get onto firmer ground, his mind tells him. He needs to get Bilbo out of the wet clothes. They need to get somewhere warm.

But he cannot feel his legs anymore, and there’s a trail of blood on the ice where he was lying, and Thorin understands. He grips Bilbo’s wrist, and drags both of them away from the hole, over to the middle of the river where the ice is still stable and where the first rays of sunlight are touching.

They will not be warm enough.

Under his hands, the pulse in that thin wrist is weak, and Thorin knows his grip must be bruising. He could shatter those bones, how often had he thought this, back when the madness had eaten his mind, when he had forced Bilbo to stay next to him, ignored the hobbit’s obvious discomfort. It is all clear to him now –

“Bilbo!” Thorin calls, interrupting his spinning thoughts and rolls the hobbit over, “Bilbo, wake up!”

Warmth, if there was any warmth nearby he could still save him. Bilbo’s life could still be saved – but the ice isn’t warm enough, and it’s winter, not even the sun light carries warmth. Bilbo shivers violently, but his eyelids flutter, and Thorin forcefully strips away the blue coat and shrugs off his own.

There is no warm place nearby. There is nobody he can call. Bilbo’s life is forfeit, no matter how many of his own layers he sheds and wraps Bilbo in.

He barely feels the cold anymore.

“Bilbo, wake up!” he calls again, desperately, because time is slipping away for both of them. The burn in his side lessens, and Bilbo’s pallor is growing waxy.

“Thorin?” Bilbo mumbles when Thorin wraps his leather coat around the hobbit’s shoulder, hoping it may at least provide some warmth, even though he can feel the cold emanating from Bilbo’s body through it.

Something burning rises in his chest and Thorin clutches the hobbit against his own body. Their eyes meet, and Thorin can only see understanding in Bilbo’s.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts out and tightens his grip, his voice choked and shaky “I’m sorry I brought you into this, I’m sorry I was blind, I – I would take back everything, my words at the gate, every unkind word I spoke to you, I – “

A hand weakly tugs on his arm, interrupting Thorin’s ramblings. Bilbo manages a shaky smile, but his lips are turning blue, and his voice is barely working. “I… forgiven, Thorin. … I un- understand. And … I … I’m glad … I met … you…”

A shudder wrecks him and Thorin rubs his back, as if the gesture could return any warmth. He casts a desperate glance around, but they are alone but for the bodies of dead orcs, and he does not know what has happened on the battlefield. The sounds have faded, and the sun has risen, but the frozen river already feels removed from the world of the living.

“I, it may not be my place to say it, but,” Thorin’s voice hitches, “I’m glad I met you, too. You broke me out of the gold sickness, you know. If you hadn’t given them the Arkenstone, I would have never had to confront my feelings. Never would have woken from my stupor.”

Bilbo’s eyelids have started sinking, and he no longer shivers. There is yet light in them, and Thorin hopes he can still hear his words. “I owe you so much and in the end I have only led you to death. I pray the Valar will right my wrongs and bestow upon you what you deserve, and I … if I … had…”

Darkness rises behind Thorin’s eyelids. He doesn’t remember lying down next to Bilbo, and still the ground feels unsteady. Somehow Bilbo’s hand has come to rest against his wrist and twitches weakly and without a thought Thorin takes it.

The ice-cold skin is a shock against his blood-crusted fingers, and Thorin can only hope Bilbo feels his grip. There is a weak pulse in it still, but the hobbit’s body is huddled against him and quite still.

Thorin’s own body feels numb. He can barely raise his other arm and wrap it around Bilbo. His mind drifts, free from pain and even the guilt seems to dissolve. He thinks of holding the hobbit, the embrace they shared back on the Carrock. Of bright smiles and how he would have thrown his arms around Bilbo the moment their troubles were over.

How he would have offered the hobbit a home under the mountain and the laughter they would have shared. How they would have watched Fili rise to greatness and Kili to fame and would have lived out their days happily.

And happily gone to sleep.

***

It is Kili who finds them. He’s limping, one ankle badly sprained and his throat bruised black and purple while Tauriel follows, her left arm hanging limply. He’s seen the eagles descended, and Tauriel had said the tides had turned, but his heart still trembles from what he wants to have been a nightmare.

Ravenhill is silent and nothing moves on the snow, and Kili can see his brother’s still form lying where he fell. It’s not a nightmare and even Tauriel’s fingers on his shoulder cannot mend the rip he feels running through his chest.

With a dull thud, he falls to his knees, his mind blank. Not even tears will come.

Tauriel kneels next to him and murmurs a small blessing in Sindarin, before reaching out a gentle hand to close Fili’s eyes. Kili feels another part of his heart break away, as his mind reminds him that this was the last time he’s seen his brother’s eyes, and there will be no undoing this.

This is final.

“Tauriel,” another voice calls and Kili joins her in looking over her shoulder. Legolas stands a bit further from them, and Kili immediately sees the bloodstain on the ice before him. Red, not black.

And his eyes spring to the dark shape behind.

“No!” he shouts, “No, no, no!”

Because he knows whose coat it is, recognizes those bare feet even before he’s up and running. Tauriel shouts something, but he doesn’t hear her, not her, not Legolas, not even the rushing of blood in his own ears.

He cannot –

But it’s Thorin, lying in a pool of blood and clutching the unmoving form of their burglar to his chest. Ice covers Bilbo’s hair, and his feet are blue, and Kili wants to scream at the sky.

Not Bilbo. Not Thorin. They cannot leave him, not when he just realized he never wants to see battle again, not when he needs them, now more than ever. Thorin had always been there to help, and he cannot, he cannot do this alone.

He reaches out, helplessly, fingers first brushing past Bilbo – and he can feel the ice, and how did he become so cold – then landing on Thorin’s shoulder. The fabric is stiff, and Thorin does not even twitch and Kili can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Tauriel says, but Kili barely even hears her.

He’s lost everything, he thinks, and it’s as if the ground has been pulled from underneath his feet. His brother, his uncle – with a shaky glance he raises his head and looks toward the mountain. Not worth it, he wants to shout, the dead kingdom is not worth these precious lives.

“Oh,” a new voice utters and the sound barely carries over the ice. “Oh no.” Kili barely recognizes it, for the uncharacteristic waver, but it’s unmistakably Dwalin’s blood-splattered form making his way towards them from the other side of Ravenhill.

“Are they -?” he asks, and it’s Tauriel who nods her head.

“How,” Dwalin mutters and sinks to his knees opposite of Kili, “They both were… Just a moment ago, Bilbo, he was with me. Got knocked out, but I thought he’d be safe…”

Kili swallows, and suddenly finds Dwalin’s eyes glued to him. “I’m sorry, lad. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect them.”

No, Kili wants to reassure him, not in this battle. Not when he knows from the scrapes and cuts littering Dwalin’s arms and face just how close a fight it has been. But the words won’t come, his throat choked by a noose and he is struggling to breathe.

“I’ll inform your kin,” Legolas tells them diplomatically before vanishing from the scene. Kili does not hear him go – he wants nothing more than to turn back time, protest when Fili said he’d inspect the upper levels. They’d both heard the sounds, why hadn’t he insisted they stay together at least?

Why had he –

“Lad,” Dwalin eventually interrupts his self-recriminations, “I’m sorry.”

He realizes he has no idea how much time has passed. But he can now see the others approaching, Balin and Bifur and Nori and Ori. Dori is limping, supported by Gloin and Oin’s head has been bandaged, and behind them walks Gandalf, and they’re joined by Dain and his generals and Kili’s heart sinks.

Dwalin rises to his feet. To the newcomers, he inclines his head.

“The King is dead,” he announces, “Long live the King.”

And when a mournful, subdued chant of “Long live the King” echoes over the ice on Ravenhill, Kili realizes that his fate has been set.

***

In spite of its bleak beginning, the rule of King Kili is later deemed as prosperous. The King’s close friendship with a particular elf may have helped and while a marriage was never possible – and indeed, the chroniclers have only ever used the term “friendship” – no other marriage proposal ever met with consideration. To regulate the line of inheritance, the King chose to foster two sons of a dear companion – and so the line of Ur rose to nobility.

But in a darkening age Erebor’s prosperity also caused misgivings and jealous. Perhaps, however, these were a blessing, for the all-seeing eye of the enemy never thought to look to the navel of economic uproar for its lost treasure.

For they all had not known what had slipped from Bilbo’s pocket that day when he had fallen through the ice.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm trying to find my way around on tumblr ([paranoidfridge](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge), if you're up for fangirling, technical mishaps and whatever else may occur) and while I won't promise anything, if you have prompts... ^_~


	34. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an old dwarven form of magic Thorin remembers on accident. One he learns to summon through Bilbo's blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Daaaark stuff. Blood drinking. Violence. Overtures to cannibalism. Not really a happy ending, either. Please beware!  (also, 9k words)
> 
> Also, thanks to [Syxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Syxx/pseuds/Syxx) for the prompt. Which originally was vampiric!Thorin, but somehow my muse didn't really want the fangs there and went for a more practical approach to the issue of "blood drinking".

The notion has always been there. Gnawing at the back of his mind, when the round green door had first opened and he’d caught sight of that smooth, porcelain face. Not a clear thought back then, not even an idea when the fiery light of blazing trees had made those curls glow in shades of gold and copper. The silhouette, first round, now more slender, had begun to haunt his dreams back at the skin changer’s abode, all through Mirkwood and first he had mistaken it for carnal sort of desire.

He had run his fingers through Bilbo’s hair in Laketown, taken hold of a wrist and felt the fluttering pulse underneath the skin – merriment and good humor written over every face and Bilbo had smiled at him brightly – and his loins had not stirred. But the throb of blood had sung through his entire being and Thorin had recognized in it the luring melody of fate. An invisible connection between Bilbo and himself, a destiny entwining them both.

But those are not strings of the heart, Thorin has since then realized. The puzzle fades to the background as they run from the dragon, and when the beast descends upon Laketown, understanding occurs on accident.

***

Even in the cool air of the night, Thorin feels as if on fire. He longs to go into the mountain, longs to gaze upon his treasure for the town is far and the fires do not bother him. His mind is fogged, and absentmindedly he wipes the sweat from his face, only noticing the blood on his hand when it has smeared across his lips.

In the light of the moon, the blood on his fingers is almost black, and Thorin stares at it in momentary confusion. Up on the lower outlooks of Ravenhill, his companions watch – they would have told Thorin had he been injured. Balin and Dwalin, his oldest friends, would have nagged him into getting his wounds treated like so many times before.

Unless…

He shakes his head, dispelling the vaguely disquieting notion. They would not betray him, therefore the blood must have come from somebody else. Thorin’s recollections of their mad chase are blurred, and he thinks he must have taken Nori’s hand once, and then reached out to take Bilbo by the shoulder.

His eyes are drawn to the hobbit – now, that he thinks about it, Bilbo holds himself stiffly. As if his side pained him, as if – Before Thorin quiet knows what he is doing, his tongue slips out and he licks the blood from his lips.

A flash runs through him. For a split second, the world goes white, and when it returns, it is changed. Thorin’s blood hums with energy, with life – with magic.

And he understands.

Buried deep underneath Erebor’s library there used to be another chamber. Dark, forbidden and mostly forgotten, it had stored those tomes deemed too dangerous and too vile. Down there, he remembers now, the dwarves of Erebor kept their books on dwarvish magic. A skill now mostly associated with moon runes and hidden doors – but once upon a time, a power to be reckoned with.

The tales say the dwarves woke the Balrog on accident or by greed. But was it an accident that such ancient evil rose deep in the earth where dwarven magic dwelled? Thorin exhales shortly, almost tempted to laugh at the blindness.

He raises his hand to his lips, licking away the remaining blood, not bothered by the dirt and dust intermingled with it. Dwarven magic, he remembers now, has not been based on blood – men had been more apt at using it to their will – but there had been commentaries. Tomes detailing the uses of blood magic – pointing out that to the right wielder the right type of blood is magic.

This is the answer, then, he thinks, almost dizzy from the revelation. Not the red strings of the heart tie Bilbo and him together, but the blood red strings of an ancient magic. Gandalf was right, in a way: the hobbit is the key to reclaiming Erebor, but he was never meant to be a burglar. Instead, his blood will grant Thorin the power he needs to rule the mountain and the lands beyond.

They watch the dragon fall, dead, from the sky. The ancient monster’s body hits the town and destroys what has not burned yet, and Thorin observes his company in these moments. What joy they express at the dragon’s death is clouded by grief for those dead in Laketown.

Thorin’s body yet throbs with the elation of his realization. The mountain would have been his, dragon or not, and he has seen a kingdom fall to a dragon, once. Laketown will survive, but that is no longer they concern.

His mountain beckons.

“Bilbo,” he calls out, gently, and rests a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. He can feel the blood soaking through the fabric there, and Bilbo flinches. “You are hurt – we should get the wound treated.”

More blood spreads over his fingers as he pulls Bilbo along, turning to the rest of his company. “Everybody – let us go inside! Erebor is ours once again!”

His mind dances as he envisions licking the blood of his fingers.

***

The mountain is his, he can feel it in every vein of his body. But the Arkenstone remains missing, and Thorin knows he will need it to affirm his claim. His company may be willing to accept him as a King, but he is aware the lords of the other dwarven kingdoms are not so easily persuaded.

So he has his company search through the treasure hall, day and night. Though he keeps Bilbo at his side, the hobbit still oblivious to the bond they share. Thorin can feel the magic in his blood. It is but a glimpse of what may be – a taste of the power Bilbo can bestow upon him through his blood.

Erebor needn’t fear another dragon. And for that Thorin is unwilling to let Bilbo leave his sight.

***

Bilbo is utterly uncomfortably, standing high upon the dais next to Thorin’s throne when the King shouts at Balin and Dwalin. He shouldn’t be here, he thinks, he shouldn’t be listening to this falling out between these dwarves.

Is this goldsickness, he wonders. Elrond, Gandalf and Thranduil had all referenced it as the reason Smaug had come to Erebor. Bilbo himself had been there to see Smaug spellbound by the gigantic golden statue – and that had been different from the way Thorin is acting, now. Thorin spends much time among his treasure, but his steps lead him away ever so often. He displays a strange onset of paranoia, one Bilbo does not think to blame upon the gold.

Thorin’s possessiveness, he feels, is much more focused on the missing Arkenstone. The gem still safely ensconced in Bilbo’s pocket and the longer he listens to Thorin rave, the clearer he understands he can never hand it over.

What breaks his heart, however, is the trust Thorin places in him.

“What has this become,” Thorin wonders to the empty air after Balin and Dwalin have left, “When I feel as if my oldest friends have all abandoned me?”

Bilbo nervously clears his throat. “I, I don’t think they have. Thorin, they are doing everything they can to find it, you know that?”

“And yet it is still not found,” Thorin shakes his head theatrically.

“Well, it is an awful amount of treasure to go through,” Bilbo replies with a forced chuckle, and earns a warm smile from Thorin in return. “Indeed, Bilbo, indeed. It feels as if you are the last remaining voice of reason in the dark…”

Thorin draws closer, too close for Bilbo’s taste as he can feel Thorin’s breath tickle his skin and see the odd light filling Thorin’s eyes. Callused fingers ghost past his cheek and find his shoulder.

“Is it healing well?” he asks, “You look pale – let me check for infection.”

“You took good care of it when you bandaged it, Thorin. It is healing,” Bilbo says, evenly, “And I believe I could do with some sun, I would no longer be so pale.” He manages a shaky smile.

Thorin’s features soften. “If I could, I would bring the sun down here. Maybe one day we can install mirrors to reflect sunlight down to the treasury – and a great light more golden than any other would brighten the entire inside of the mountain.”

And as that rare, precious notion of happiness flutters over Thorin’s features, Bilbo’s heart throbs in response. This is the happiness he always wished for Thorin – and yet, it is twisted beyond all rational thought. Instead of trying to speak the truth, Bilbo accepts himself to be a coward.

“That will be beautiful, indeed, Thorin, and I will be glad to see it,” he says, “Though for now, if you don’t mind, I will go to the gate to seek out the sun.”

Thorin seems on the verge of protesting, but then he steps back, opening the way for Bilbo to go past him. “Please be careful. The stone there isn’t yet stable.”

***

Bilbo does not go straight to the gate. First, he seeks out Balin and finds his worst fears confirmed. In his hands, sitting on the gate in the pale sunshine of an early winter day, the Arkenstone appears utterly harmless. Beautiful, but still nothing more than a stone.

His contemplations are cut short by the return of Fili, Kili, Bofur and Oin – and Bilbo’s heart leaps to find them alive. The happiness does not last. Learning of the destruction Laketown suffered pains his heart. News of the orc attack render him uneasy.

Thorin does not ask for news. He welcomes his nephews to Erebor, and Bilbo can see realization dawning on their faces. They must have known of Erebor’s riches, having grown up on tales of the mountain – but there is a stark difference between the words and seeing what they promised.

At least, Bilbo assures himself, their eyes do not go blank.

“Now that you have arrived,” Thorin announces to the hall, “There remains but one more feat to be achieved. Help me find the crown to these riches, find me the Arkenstone!”

His voice echoes threateningly and Bilbo cannot help but shudder. As if his movement had summoned Thorin’s gaze, the King turns to him.

“Bilbo, you are still pale,” Thorin says, “Come with me. I will look at the wound.” When Oin moves to interrupt, Thorin shakes his head. “I have taken care of similar injuries often, I can look after it. Go and rejoin with your brother, Oin, I can take care of our burglar.”

And even though the words are gentle, something cold runs down Bilbo’s spine.

***

The hobbit hesitates, so Thorin takes hold of his elbow. Under his fingers the bones feel thin, bird-like, and Thorin wonders how easy it would be to crush them. Do these bones also hold magic? He is inclined to believe it, for the longer he looks, the more he thinks it is no chance that Bilbo’s hair shines like gold in the firelight and his eyes glitter more brightly than the clearest emeralds.

There is more magic to the hobbit than he yet knows and Thorin looks to the day he will be able to explore. When the library has been reestablished and the chamber of forgotten books found once more. Perhaps then Bilbo, too, will understand.

“Where are we going, Thorin?” Bilbo interrupts his thoughts. Thorin realizes he has led them up and away from the treasury and the throne room, unconsciously following the old path to the library.

“I was trying to remember if there was possibly a chamber left in a more wholesome state,” Thorin replies, “But I’m afraid I erred. Let us use this chamber, Bilbo, it will serve as well as any other.”

Bilbo nods, accepting his explanation. The chamber Thorin leads them into is dusty. It used to be service quarter for the guards – a shield and two spears still stand in the corner, and the blanket on the cot is disturbed as if left behind in a hurry.

Bilbo freezes, but Thorin instead steps further into the room, following the sound of bubbling water around a corner.

“Here, Bilbo,” Thorin calls, satisfied the hot springs still feed the tubs of the former guard rooms. “Over here, take off your coat and sit down.”

The room is warmer and slightly cramped with Thorin’s bulk taking up much of the space. Once Bilbo sits on a small stool next to the hot spring, Thorin takes a step to the left, inadvertently blocking the exit.

Bilbo hesitates, but eventually slips off his coat. He is gnawing on his lip as Thorin has observed he is wont to do when nervous or worried. And while Thorin wishes he could assure him that there is nothing to worry about, he understands that from a hobbit’s perspective the mountain alone must appear daunting.

“Can you pull down your shirt?” Thorin asks, “Just enough so that I can access the wound.”

When Bilbo sets aside his scarf and reveals the pale, untouched skin of his throat, Thorin’s heart skips a beat. What would it be like, to draw the blood directly from those veins? Would it taste fresh, would it be more potent?

His mind throbs to find out, but he knows better than to scare his burglar. Reluctantly he tears his eyes from Bilbo’s throat and to the exposed shoulder. With steady hands he loosens the bandages, revealing a dark scab. It appears to heal nicely, though –

“Let me check for infection,” Thorin announces, “This will hurt just a second.”

And before Bilbo can protest, he’s digging his nail into the scab, feeling it break under his fingertip. Fresh blood wells up, deep and red and Bilbo makes an odd, choked sound, stiffening underneath Thorin’s hands.

When blood coats the tip of his thumb, Thorin draws back and licks it off. Bilbo’s eyes widen almost comically. “What are you –“ he gasps, and Thorin remembers to smile. “Easiest way to check for infection,” he lies, “You can taste the rot. But you’re in luck, the wound heals well.”

Bilbo opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. Eventually, he settles on primly drawing his shirt back up. “Well, thank you,” he announces and rises, “If you don’t mind, I’ll… go and help the others.”

And as he almost runs from the room, Thorin revels in the rush of magic the blood brings to his body.

***

Thorin allows him to slip, but soon summons Bilbo to his side again. The hobbit is there when the news arrive that the survivors from Laketown have come. When Thorin’s expression grows dark and angry and he orders the gate to be fortified.

He dares not to protest. Not when it seems some other madness is replacing the one caused by Thorin’s desire for the Arkenstone. Instead he drifts to the others and sees his concerns mirrored on their faces.

But they do, obediently, stack stone upon stone until only a sliver of the sky remains visible from down below.

***

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls out and Bilbo stiffens. He had hoped to remain unseen – lifting the rough stone has scratched his hands and his shoulder aches.

“I’ll go back to work in a moment,” Bilbo promises, “I just needed a short moment of rest.”

Thorin comes over to him, concern written over his features. “Of course,” he says, “I apologize for overlooking this – you are no dwarf, this task is not for you.”

“No, no,” Bilbo hurries to protest, “I mean, I’m not that strong, but I can do my part. I just needed – “

Thorin reaches out and trails his fingers over Bilbo’s cheeks. “You are pale and cold. Strength or not, the gate is no place for you. I will not have you harmed on my watch, Bilbo.”

A shadow of the old warmth Thorin’s affections have inspired in him rises. But more than anything, Bilbo feels afraid. Thorin’s madness has only grown – they all know this – but they do not know how to break him out.

“Come with me,” Thorin says, “I will find you a place warm and safe.”

Bilbo swallows and stands. “Thorin,” he says over the echo of their footsteps down a vast, empty corridor, “Regarding the cold. I was thinking, since the mountain is warm, could we perhaps open it to the Lakemen?”

When Thorin’s features darken, he hastens to add. “Not the treasury, of course, but maybe the forges? It’s cold out there, you noticed that yourself and I’m afraid many of them will freeze.”

Thorin sighs patronizingly. “You come from the kindly west,” he says and opens the door to a luxurious chamber that has obviously been prepared. A fire flickers in the fireplace and the carpets are free from dust.

“You know not of the hardships of these lands. If it were as simple as saving the lives of a few fishermen, you would be right, I would gladly welcome them to my forges. But these are no simple fishermen and they do not simply ask for shelter,” Thorin shakes his head, “You have seen the army they have brought along. I cannot risk opening my doors to them, you must understand, Bilbo.”

He sinks down onto a large armchair and beckons for Bilbo to take the other one. On the table in between stand two golden cups filled with wine and a plate of cured meat and mushrooms.

“It is not much,” Thorin inclines his head, “But my nephews brought back some stores from Laketown and Bombur noticed that some bottles of wine have survived. The mushrooms have ever since grown in the mountain – not a luxurious fare, I admit, but I hope it will help you feel better.”

Guilt immediately surges through Bilbo. “I can’t eat this, Thorin,” he protests, “Have the others had anything? They’ve been down here for days, eating nothing but cram and I – “

“Shhh,” Thorin silences him with a heart-warming smile, “Do not worry. They are well aware and in agreement you deserve this treat. You have been the one to riddle the dragon and we dwarves are sturdy. Hardship does not faze us much, but we have all noticed you growing thin and pale.”

Bilbo swallows. Discomfort remains lodged in his stomach, but the appetizing smell wafts up to him and it has been so long since he was able to eat his fill.

“You worry too much,” he says, but it is a paltry protest and soon he begins to eat.

***

Thorin watches in satisfaction as the hobbit devours the plate before him. He reminds himself to take a morsel every now and then, just enough to make Bilbo comfortable, but in truth he is not hungry.

Not when every fiber of his being demands another kind of nourishment. The magic Bilbo’s blood granted him is wearing thin. Now that Thranduil and Bard have stationed two armies before Erebor’s gates he needs it more than ever. And he knows a few drops of blood from a scratch cannot be enough.

Cannot suffice to throw back an enemy such as this.

But as long as Bilbo clings to naïve hopes of opening their gates to their enemies, Thorin will not force him to actively invoke their magic. He understands the cruelty of war, and while Bilbo is wiley and clever, he possesses a shred of innocence Thorin is loath to destroy. So instead he watches as Bilbo sips on the spiked wine and slowly, but certainly succumbs to sleep.

“It is only the food after a long time without,” Thorin reassures him as Bilbo makes a sound and struggles in his seat, “Nothing unusual. The last days have been stressful for all of us. Let your body take its rest – I will keep you from harm.”

Bilbo blinks at him one last time, before the eyelids fall close and the hobbit slumps in his chair. Thorin rises and gently lifts him up. He is lighter than expected – another thing Thorin must see to, now that his magic hinges on Bilbo. And he will also have to make certain no harm comes to him.

Maybe Bilbo will be happy to stay in these chambers for now, Thorin contemplates as he carries Bilbo into the adjoining room. The suite he set up with the help of his nephews is not grand, but its furniture is mostly intact and its bathroom connected to Erebor’s hot springs.

Thorin sets Bilbo down on top of the bed covers and the hobbit does not stir. It appears the old medicine still works. He will not know what is happening next.

As gentle as possible, Thorin strips away Bilbo’s blue coat, idly contemplating whether or not to fetch a more suitable replacement from the treasury. For now, though, he sets it down on a nearby chair, knowing about the treasured acorn Bilbo keeps in its pockets. Then he tucks the hobbit underneath the blankets, until only his shoulders and his right arm remain free.

Thorin stands, walks to the sitting room and retrieves a hidden bundle with clean bandages, alcohol, a knife and a cup. Carefully, he takes Bilbo’s right wrist and stretches out his arm, setting down Bilbo’s limp hand on his thigh. The hobbit’s lower arm stretches over the air and Thorin pushes the cup underneath.

He leans forward, inspecting the thin skin and tracing the veins underneath. Until he finds the one he needs – and cuts.

***

When Bilbo wakes up he is warm and terribly dizzy. For a moment he stares up numbly at a madly spinning ceiling while his mind tries to puzzle out his vague memories. News of Thranduil’s army, Thorin’s temper –

And food and wine. Perhaps, he thinks as his stomach twists uneasily, it was the wine. It has been so long since he had food and drink, perhaps he simply overdid it. Which is embarrassing since the dwarves set it aside for him.

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to sit up. Nausea rises, and when he supports himself, a sharp twinge runs up his arm from his wrist. A glance downward reveals white bandages wrapped around it and the world tilts dangerously.

Bilbo blinks in confusion. He doesn’t remember injuring his wrist. Did he catch it against something? Did the wine go to his head and he ended up cutting himself on something? He doesn’t think he drank quite so much, but try as he might he recalls nothing beyond Thorin telling him to relax.

The mystery haunts him out of the bed and up through Erebor’s corridors. He is shaky on his feet and the moment he happens upon his companions Fili takes him by the shoulders and asks him if he’s sick.

“I’m quite alright,” Bilbo replies, “Only, I don’t quite know. Perhaps just the stress.”

Fili’s face twists. “Did uncle say anything to you? Last night? We, I mean, Kili and Bofur and everybody, we weren’t sure – if anything happened …”

Bilbo sees the fear in Fili’s eyes and abruptly remembers just how young he is. He shakes his head firmly, ignoring the black spots the movement summons. “Nothing happened. And I would like to thank you all for the food – I truly enjoyed it very much. Now –“

“Bilbo, there you are!” Thorin exclaims and they both turn to see the King approaching. The Raven Crown glows golden and the long black cloak drags on the ground behind the King.

“If you are quite rested, I have something for you,” Thorin says and Bilbo feels his heart sink. He exchanges a short look with Fili and they resolve to do nothing. Reluctantly Fili releases Bilbo’s shoulders.

Bilbo turns to Thorin and summons a faint smile. “Quite well,” he says, “Though I found the wine must have been quite strong – I don’t remember getting that cut. I hope it didn’t make too much of a mess.”

From the corner of his eye he sees Fili’s head jerk up and follow Bilbo’s arm down to where the white bandages barely peak out of his sleeve. Then Thorin wraps a colloquial arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and forces him to look away.

“Not at all,” Thorin replies, “But I was thinking, I cannot risk you being this unprotected. And while I cannot save you from clumsiness, I can protect you from stray arrows and weapons.”

Bilbo realizes Thorin is leading them back down to the treasury. Unease blossoms in his stomach. “Why? Has the situation grown so much worse?”

Thorin snorts. “Thranduil would have long since attacked, but Bard has so far stayed his hand. He came to parlay earlier.”

“And?” Bilbo inquires, unable to suppress the spark of hope.

“His terms were ridiculous,” Thorin says.

Though he appears unwilling to say more on the matter, Bilbo wonders just what terms Bard presented. He doubts they were so very unreasonable – but he wasn’t there to hear them. “What happens now?”

“They gave us a day and a night to reconsider,” Thorin remarks, “Tomorrow morning they swore to attack.” He chuckles darkly and something cold runs down Bilbo’s spine.

“But, Thorin,” he stammers, “Won’t we – I mean the gate is well-fortified, but if they have an army…”

Thorin’s arm tightens around his shoulders. “They will be in for a surprise,” he announces, “Don’t be afraid, Bilbo, they will not take Erebor.”

Bilbo bites his lips and watches as Thorin makes his way down to the treasure, retrieving a specific object Bilbo at first cannot place. Only when Thorin carries it toward him and unfolds it, he recognized a chainmail shirt.

“Is this silver?” Bilbo asks, studying the detailed ornaments along its color.

“No,” Thorin replies with a smile, “Mithril. Light as a feather and harder than steel – it will keep you safe.”

Bilbo blinks, tearing his eyes from the shirt to find Thorin’s. The mad gleam has not abated, and is distorting the gentle, protective expression and Bilbo’s heart hovers between fear and affection one moment more.

“Me?”

“Yes, for you. I think it was once made for an elven prince, but you are much worthier to receive it,” Thorin tells him, “Think of it as my first gift to you. A thank you for helping us win the mountain and something to keep you safe. Put it on.”

With his heart in his throat, Bilbo unbuttons his coat and waistcoat, accepting Thorin’s help on slipping the shirt over his head. True to Thorin’s word, the weight is negligible. Thorin’s smile is heart-wrenching.

“It suits you,” he says with a smile, “And I would ask you to come here, tomorrow morning. Once the battle begins, the treasury will be the safest place in the mountain.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Thorin, if – if there is to be a battle, I won’t let you go out there alone. I – “

“Please, Bilbo,” Thorin asks, “I would feel better if I knew you safe.”

And even though madness still haunts Thorin’s expression, Bilbo is defenseless against the soft-spoken plea. Thorin’s fingers ghost over his cheek, and Bilbo sighs.

“You know,” he mutters as Thorin’s hand comes to rest under his chin, tilting his head just slightly backward, “I would feel so much better if you were safe. Must you really go to war?”

***

Thorin must, but as Bilbo learns quickly, the rest of the company do not share that opinion. Even though they all have donned armor and weapons, grief is written over their faces. Bofur’s smile is pale as he pats Bilbo’s back. “Better if you stay back. Wouldn’t want to have somebody accidentally step on you.”

Bilbo shoves him in return and everybody chuckles. “You’ve done much more than the contract warranted,” Balin tells him with a heavy sigh, “And this feels like a poor reward. But –“

“Can you not refuse to fight?” Bilbo asks, knowing that desperation is coloring his voice, “Tell him you won’t go out there? What if you offered Bard a deal, Balin? Or Fili did?”

Fili stiffens, but Balin shakes his head. “Even if we did, Thranduil may not accept it,” Balin explains and Dwalin growls something unflattering in the background. “Also, Dain will be here soon, too, so standing against Thorin will not be wise.”

Bilbo’s stomach sinks. He hadn’t even known Thorin had sent for reinforcements – but this explains the King’s strange confidence at being able to win a battle for the mountain. So madness had not devoured all reasoning.

“But Thorin doesn’t have the Arkenstone,” Bilbo mutters.

“Aye,” Gloin agrees, “But as long as that is presumed merely buried somewhere in the mountain, it doesn’t matter.”

Bilbo’s coat suddenly feels twice as heavy. He realizes what he must do and while his companions idly chatter the day away, he begins to plan.

***

Thorin is not surprised to find Thranduil’s army lingering just out of shot before his gate when the sun rises on the next morning. The air is crisp and cold and Thorin feels his body alive with power and magic. Even though the last reminder of the blood he’d drawn from Bilbo had started clotting, it had lost none of its potency. Dain is bound to arrive soon, but Thorin doesn’t doubt they can defend the mountain even without his cousin.

Victory may be more difficult, but he can always try and ask Bilbo to donate blood. If he explains, he believes the hobbit will understand. He may shy away from dark magic, but he has shown again and again how much the company means to him.

Even now Bilbo follows them up on the battlements, looking out of place in his woolen coat among dwarves in full armor. Thorin is glad to spy the mithril shirt underneath, but is half-tempted to send Bilbo back down for safety.

A movement from below draws his attention and he watches the soldiers part to allow Thranduil and Bard through. Have they come to parlay one more time? Do they feel the magic? If so, their fear is well-founded.

“Hail, King under the Mountain,” Bard proclaims, “You recall our terms. Has your answer changed?”

Thorin sees the obvious unease on Bard’s face. Thranduil displays no expression and Thorin decides to not hide his smirk. “It has not. Have you changed your demands?”

Bard twitches at that. Thorin’s interest is roused, but Thranduil speaks up instead. “No, but they have been quite generously met.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rise. Are they lying to avoid battle? He had expected an extension of the deadline, but no outright lie. “I would like to see this.”

Thranduil’s lips twitch. “As you desire.”

And from underneath his cloak Bard draws forth the Arkenstone.

Thorin’s vision grows red. Fury wells up in his veins, so heavy and violent the stone under his fingers cracks and crumbles. In the back of his mind he realizes Bard and Thranduil are watching his every move but he does not care.

“Who,” he hisses as white-hot rage floods him, “Who of you betrayed me? Who of you dares to go against your King?”

Of course they all stare at him, wide-eyed and pale and pretend innocence, and Thorin roars. “If you do not speak out, I will cut you down one by one and it will be what you all deserve!”

He reaches for his sword just as Bilbo pushes past Dwalin. “I did it,” the hobbit shouts, “I gave them the stone.”

Thorin’s mind snaps. “You…” he growls because there are no more words to express the maelstrom of anger he feels.

“Yes, I did it, because I did not want to see you die needlessly!” Bilbo exclaims, “Don’t you see, Thorin? This is madness! You’ll die! You and – “

Thorin wraps his fingers around Bilbo’s throat before he realizes he has crossed the distance. Under his fingers the pulse flutters madly and magic sings in Thorin’s blood. Bilbo struggles against his hold, but Thorin forces him down and over the parapets, watching as Bilbo’s eyelids begin to flutter with panic.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” a voice booms from below and Thorin glances up to see Gandalf stalk up, “You let go of my burglar!”

The body under Thorin’s hands is limp. He can still feel a pulse and the pieces come together once more.

“Of course,” he agrees and loosens his hold. The body of the burglar tumbles to the ground and Fili and Kili dash forward to pick him up.

“Bring him to his rooms,” Thorin orders. His nephews – both white as chalk – nod and disappear. Determination begins to replace the inferno of black rage. He will have his revenge. Bilbo’s betrayal doesn’t matter at all. Not when the magic dormant in his blood will help Thorin reclaim the Arkenstone.

“Return my burglar!” Gandalf shouts. Thorin glances down and sees that Bard, too, looks worried. Only Thranduil appears unfazed

Thorin smirks. Thranduil will regret his mistake soon enough. “Not before you return the Arkenstone and withdraw your armies.”

***

Thorin brushes off the companies’ inquiries. He tells Oin to check upon Kili’s shoulder, the burglar is not his business. They ought to prepare for battle – he does not believe an attack will occur soon, not when Gandalf may attempt to sway Bard and Thranduil to exchange the stone for Bilbo.

And Thorin can see it happening all too well. Bard will be torn between his conscience and desires, but Thranduil will not bow to Gandalf’s suggestions. A grin spreads over Thorin’s face. Perhaps he should keep Thranduil alive – just long enough to tell him that had he agreed to trade for Bilbo, he might have had a chance.

But Thranduil is, once more, blind to true power. Thorin will use the magic, retake the Arkenstone, avenge his people, and ascertain his rule.

He hums under his breath as he descends the staircases leading down to Bilbo’s chambers. His nephews have settled the hobbit against the covers and he has only begun to return to consciousness.

Thorin watches him twitch for a moment and there is a spark of warmth in his heart. Traitor, perhaps, but lead astray by fear and naivety. Nevertheless, he will assure their victory.

Knife and cup are still underneath the bed, though Thorin decides the cup is too small. He will share the magic – gift a part of it to his company so their doubts may be dispersed. For a moment he wonders, once again, if the magic might be more potent in the bones – but extracting one, even if only a finger, and maiming it will take too long.

Later, perhaps.

Thorin procures a wider chalice and returns to find Bilbo has shifted on the bed. He moans, the bruises against his throat beginning to darken. Thorin abruptly realizes that Bilbo is liable to awaken and struggle and Thorin will not risk losing blood.

With a frown he gets up and tears the bed cover into strips, using them to affix Bilbo to the bed and leaving only the right arm free. A waste of time, Thorin thinks to himself and pushes back the sleeve, not noticing the soft sound that falls from Bilbo’s lips.

He rips off the bandages and finds the last cut scabbed over.

This time he cuts deeper.

***

Bilbo wakes to a deep stinging pain on his arm. With a choked scream, he tries to twist away, but is jerked back. His head bounces against the mattress, pain races up his arm and he feels the binding wrapped around his arms and ankles.

His memories slam back, he gasps. His arm is pulled in response and he realizes warm fingers are wrapped around his right hand and his head spins.

Something warm –

“So the traitor awakens,” a familiar voice hisses, much too close and Bilbo jumps. The grip on his hand tightens maliciously, sending spikes of pain up to his shoulder.

“Thorin?” Bilbo coughs, his throat throbbing drily. He remembers the ramparts, Thorin’s fingers closing off his windpipe, and doesn’t understand why the King is here, holding his hand.

Sharp, cold metal cuts through the soft flesh of Bilbo’s arm and he squeaks. “Wh – what, Thorin, what are you doing?” He stammers when the pain abates. Warmth trickles down his arm, and now he can hear the dripping.

Thorin’s eyes are dark and mad. “Your blood will win this battle,” he tells Bilbo, “Even though it is a traitor’s, the magic is unspoiled. It will bring us victory. And then I will return and see if there is magic left in your remains.”

Bilbo’s heart speeds up. “Thorin, you don’t – “

He cannot finish the sentence. Thorin cuts, again, and the pain send sparks before Bilbo’s eyes. When he can breathe again, his pulse is fast and shallow and his vision darkens at the corners.

“Please,” he whispers, weakly trying to pull back his arm. But Thorin’s grip is iron, and he does not even look up from where he must be collecting the blood. Bilbo feels tears burn in his eyes.

This wasn’t what he expected. He knew he gambled his life, knew Thorin’s rage – but he’d not thought it would end like this, end with him tied to the bed like a sacrificial animal tied up for slaughter, bleeding out under the hands of a mad king.

His heart aches for the Shire. His garden, his armchair. The blue sky, warm air.

With his last strength, Bilbo turns his head to the other side. Thorin Oakenshield will not be the last thing he sees. He will rather close his eyes and dream of home.

Summon his memories of beautiful summer evenings when the warmth lingered long after the sun had gone. When the air smelled of honey and grass, and all bad things were but a distant notion.

It is easier to give into the darkness like this.

***

“They are approaching,” Dwalin reports when Thorin returns to his companions, “Dain will only be here at nightfall.”

Thorin nods. “It is not a problem,” he says, “Gather the company.”

He proffers an ancient wine bottle and even though Dwalin appears confused, he fulfills Thorin’s bidding without protest. The company gathers just below the ramparts, all dressed in full armor. Ori stays back, pale and Kili glares at him.

Thorin has procured a set of small glasses from the treasury. Their gold has tarnished, but the rubies sparkle just as brightly and seem to glow with extra energy when Thorin fill them up. It will give them the power he need, he thinks to himself, the magic drawn from Bilbo’s blood will both protect and strengthen them, even if he had to mix the blood with water in order to have enough for twelve dwarves.

He still tastes the iron on his lips from licking the cuts on Bilbo’s arms until the bleeding slowed. The hobbit had long passed out then, pale and unmoving against the sheets with his pulse weakening.

The bones, Thorin thinks, must hold the true essence of magic. He will draw it all from Bilbo once the battle is won.

“This,” he tells his companions who eye him warily, “Is for you. A drink of magic, it will grant you strength and keep you save. I … apologize for not sharing this with you sooner, but now that you are here, let us toast to our impeding victory!”

No cheer meets his words and something black coils in Thorin’s stomach. Perhaps his mistrust was not so misguided; perhaps they desire to betray him, too. No matter, he has ascertained to consume his share of blood before; even boosted their strength will be negligible compared to his.

Balin is the first to reach out and take one of the small cups, Gloin and Dwalin follow soon. Fili and Kili hesitate, even Dori, Nori, Ori, as well as Bombur and Bifur take their cups earlier. Bifur and Oin are last and a shadow crosses Bifur’s face as he swirls the liquid in his cup.

“To victory!” Thorin proposes and empties his cup in one. The coppery liquid rushes down his throat, trailing a taste of iron and something far more magical and Thorin can feel his fingertips tingle with power.

Ori coughs. A cup clatters to the ground, red liquid spills and Fili shouts: “What is that?” while Kili gags.

Oin gives his yet untouched cup a sniff. “Iron. If I didn’t know better, I’d say blood.”

“Thorin?” Balin asks, quietly, and yet the sound of his horrification cuts clearly through the din of coughs.

“Thorin, did you –“ Gloin exclaims and when Thorin does not reply he flings the cup against the wall so hard it shatters. “Curse you, what are you thinking? Are you trying to poison us all? What is this –“

“Silence!” Thorin roars, feeling his patience wane. They will be useful for establishing his rule, but that is where the use of these companions expires. He knows now not to rely on their support. A dragon they would face, but magic they fear – hypocrites, Thorin thinks.

“This,” he raises his cup so that the light catches on the rubies, “Is an ancient, forgotten form of dwarven magic! It is your heritage and it will be your victory, and all I have done is to ascertain that we will win this day and every day since!”

“But that’s … forbidden,” Ori stammers, the words falling from his lips before he can stop them. He’s stark white, but all Thorin can feel is disdain and annoyance.

“Then be gone!” he roars, “Those of you not too coward to engage ancient spell work I ask to follow me, the rest of you can go back to the holes whence you came!”

Ori flinches, but it is Nori who stands up and pulls Ori with him. “We’ll be out of your hair once the battle’s done,” he tells Thorin. Dori follows them without a word, and the silence is heavier than Thorin expected.

Bofur is the next one to place back his barely touched cup. Bifur turns to them and says “We’ll fight for Erebor, but will leave after. We have no dealings in dark magic.”

Of course, Thorin thinks, those of lower birth would be scared. They do not know how to handle the forgotten arts, they do not know of the forbidden tomes in the hidden rooms.

“Thorin,” Fili asks bleakly, “Just … where did the blood come from?”

Thorin says nothing and instead sets the cup down. Anger bubbles in his stomach at the accusation he reads on the faces before him. He shared a secret and this is his thanks – he turns on his heel.

“Those of you who are with me, follow me! If you do not, I expect you to be gone when I return.”

***

They watch in frozen horror as Thorin stalks toward the gate, fully intent on marching out there and meeting two armies on his own.

“Follow him,” Fili pleads to Balin and Dwalin, “Please, just make sure he’s safe. I –“

“We’ll do it, laddie,” Dwalin assures him, gruffly and shoulders his axes. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t lose his head, mad or not.”

“Aye,” Balin and Gloin confirm and Fili feels his heart drop in relief when they stand and turn to follow Thorin. Even Bifur and Bofur join, and Kili, too, rises. “Shall we –“ he begins.

“You go,” Fili tells him urgently, “Make sure to keep them safe. If – uncle is mad, if necessary try and treat with Thranduil and Bard. Stay the battle as long as possible. Balin will help you.”

“What are you going to do?” Kili asks.

“Look for Bilbo,” Fili replies. Kili’s face pales abruptly. “What do you –“ He interrupts himself and his pallor gains a greenish hue. “Do you mean – “

“There are no sacrificial goats in this mountain,” Fili says, darkly, “And I …” He hopes he is wrong. Prays to all deities willing to listen he is in error and Thorin gained the blood in another way.

But he’s heard the rumors of the forbidden types of magic.

“Go,” he tells Kili, because Thorin has reached the threshold and time is running out. Without waiting for a response from his brother, Fili turn and dashes down the corridor, then down several flights of staircases, past the treasury until he reaches the level of the rooms.

The air is warmer here and all is silent and the door to Bilbo’s rooms ajar and maybe Fili was wrong, maybe Thorin didn’t commit the unthinkable. With baited breath he steps forward, knocking on the door and calling the hobbit’s name but there is no response.

His heart sinks and he steps inside further. The fire has gone out, but the oil lamps still paint the room in a golden hue. The sitting room is undisturbed, though a faint smell of something lingers in the air and makes the hair on the back of Fili’s neck stand.

“Bilbo?” he calls again. Maybe the hobbit has run, he tells his frantically beating heart, maybe he realized he needed to escape and spirited himself away from these chambers. Maybe Bilbo is alright and Fili fears ghosts.

He nudges open the door to the sleeping room with his boot. The light is dimmer here, but the coppery smell of blood hits his nose immediately. His stomach twists violently and Fili staggers, clutching the doorframe as he stares uncomprehendingly at the horror before him.

Bilbo looks frail and deathly pale against the colorful coverlet, his face relaxed as if asleep. And it would look natural, if not for the fabric tying his arms and legs and small crease between his eyebrows betraying pain. And the right arm, extended limply over empty air with a bloodied bowl sitting beneath it.

Bile rises in his throat. The knife next to the bowl is bathed in red and he can still see the marks of just how full the bowl was, before –

His stomach turns and Fili forces the thoughts away, forces himself to breathe through the nausea, through the bile in his throat and hurries forward. He drops down next to the bed, stretches out a hand and is shocked to find the skin cold and dry and so terribly white and bloodless against his own fingers.

“Bilbo,” he chokes out, “Bilbo!”

The hobbit doesn’t react, those eyes remain closed. But he feels a faint pulse beneath his fingers, a weak and shaky thing and for a moment is relieved until he understands. Bilbo isn’t saved – he is dying.

Suppressing a scream, Fili flinches back.

With trembling fingers he draws his own dagger and cuts away the bindings. Bilbo bounces on the mattress like a ragdoll, and it’s terrifying to see him so still, not when he used to fuss so much. He wraps him in the coverlet, drawing the limp body close to his chest. The lack of a reaction, even an unconscious one, scares him more than anything.

Gandalf, he thinks, Gandalf will know how to save him.

And without a glance back Fili takes his precious cargo and runs.

***

Kili and Balin manage to stay a first clash, but the battle happens regardless. Azog takes them all by surprise, arriving with a force large enough to overwhelm them and had not Dain appeared from the east, the battle’s end may have been uncertain.

Much life is lost and many tales are spun. Even as the next morning dawns over a frozen field splattered with blood, the events starts on their trajectory into legend.

“He fought like a man possessed,” a former Laketown fisherman whispers to his audience, compiled of the old and young, huddled under torn cloaks and blankets, “No stroke of his sword that did not fell at least a score of orcs. I saw it with my own eyes how he cut through enemy lines on his own, his sword red as if imbued with magic.”

Many tales share this shape. Thorin Oakenshield, so historians will later write, charged into the enemy ranks ahead of all other soldiers and lords and slaying dozen upon dozen until the way to his nemesis had been cleared. Then he fought with Azog, a fierce and violent battle that he won, even though the injuries would later claim his life.

The tales on the battle field share the broad strokes. But they also speak of a red glow to his sword, a demonic light in his eyes. The unnatural way the orcs fell when the blade just brushed past him.

Magic, it is whispered, first among the dwarves, then among the men. Ancient, powerful magic. The last secrets of Durin’s line – a key to power and riches.

But these must stay rumors. Dain does not address them, and neither Thranduil nor Bard ask. Fili and Kili shrug, claiming they are too young and did not grow up in Erebor – they would not know of magic. As they answer these questions, Ori quietly slips away, and nobody does ask Gandalf of the words he exchanged after he found Thorin on the battlefield, mortally wounded but still alive.

“He died with his mind clear,” he tells the company in a quiet moment, “He, I believe, would have renounced what ill he spoke against any of you, had there been more time. He passed peacefully.”

Bilbo, secluded in a tent in the elvish parts of camp is not so easily convinced. Pale and shaky, he nevertheless sits tall against the pillows and watches Gandalf with a frown. “Those were his words?”

Gandalf sighs. “I… I believe he regretted what he did to you, Bilbo. He asked for you, then, and told me to thank you.”

Bilbo exhales. It is difficult to stay angry at the dead, especially if what Gandalf says is true. But his last memories of Thorin are at odds with how he wants to remember the dwarf, because a part of his heart is all too willing to forgive him and longs dearly for his affections. Even though he would run screaming if Thorin now raised so much as a hand in his direction.

But these speculations are in vain as Thorin is dead and Bilbo recovering, slowly but certainly, much to the astonishment of everybody. When he first heard the story, how Fili carried him in, even the elven healers had considered him beyond saving.

And yet.

A small part had clung on, sustained his life and eventually he had woken, a week after battle, and ever since then has steadily been regaining his strength.

The dwarves of Erebor have offered him a warm room in the mountain. Not the old set – nobody has spoken of it, but they all know what has occurred there. But Bilbo does not think he can return. Perhaps once for a glimpse or maybe in a decade when the memories are not so clear and the fear is not just one layer under the surface.

There are too many memories bound to the mountain, too many emotions warring for dominance in his chest and he can only pray time and the Shire’s tranquility will heal them.

***

“It’s a pity Bilbo won’t stay,” Kili says, kicking a pebble out of the way. The fine robe has done nothing to his manners and Fili is all the gladder for it on days the crown threatens to break him. Balin has just spirited the gaggle of advisors away and they have one the rare moments to themselves.

“I think it makes a lot of sense,” Fili replies, “And he said he might come back.”

“Might,” Kili mumbles, sounding petulant. Then he sighs and straightens. “Well, I hope he does. Else we should go and visit him.”

Fili musters a smirk. “Make sure to get the mud off your boots before going in that time around.”

It’s enough to draw a chuckle from his younger brother. And Fili is grateful for all signs of humor, for with so many dead and winter upon them, few feel like laughing nowadays. Grief has cut deep lines into all their faces; scars that no sword caused.

“I think it’s for the best if he goes home first,” Fili continues, thinking of just how shaky Bilbo still looked when they met him this morning, “He needs to heal.”

Kili nods. “I know. Oin says it’s a miracle...”

“Yes,” Fili nods, “I heard so, too.”

His brother hesitates and Fili notices how the air around them changes. An unfamiliar expression creeps onto Kili’s face. “Fili. Those rumors … about uncle Thorin and magic. Do you know anything about this?”

Fili’s stomach sinks. He didn’t want to tell his little brother, didn’t want to know all the gory details himself. But they must rule the mountain now, as Balin had put it, they must know its secrets.

“Yes,” he sighs, “Balin and Ori know most about it, but there is, or rather, there used to be some forms of dwarven magic. Ages ago, when magic still was far more common in the world, and practices were traded freely among the different races.”

He swallows. “There is, according to Balin, a room hidden underneath Erebor’s library where the tomes of this forgotten magic are stored. Thorin – he probably knew of the room. Probably even knew some of the spells.”

“So when they say he fought as if he had magic,” Kili begins and Fili closes his eyes. “They are probably right. I – you realize that we must keep this a secret and I am not sure if even Gandalf knows, but from what they puzzled out, Thorin managed to invoke this ancient sort of magic.”

They fall silent for a moment, their footsteps echoing eerily in the empty hall. Dain’s soldiers yet keep to the camp outside of the mountain and most of the company spends the daylight hours there too, helping with the reconstruction of Dale.

“With Bilbo’s blood.” Kili states and Fili flinches.

“Yes,” Fili says, because it is the truth. The only thing Balin and Ori could not figure out was if the spells worked from the blood itself or from the particularity of Bilbo’s blood and whatever odd bond existed between Bilbo and Thorin. Ori, Fili knows, has spent time going through the chronicles, figuring out the obscured references to magic and the patterns of its usage.

Perhaps it is for the best if the magic only worked because of the connection between Bilbo and Thorin. Perhaps this connection was the necessary spark, turning a mad fantasy into reality.

It means that the use of this type of magic will remain rare. Dwarves, with their tendency to favor craft over interpersonal relationships, are generally not overly likely to establish this kind of connection. And yet the possibilities make Fili shudder.

What kind of power could Thorin have amassed? What would have happened, had Thorin not fallen?

“Might the magic,” Kili begins thoughtfully next to him, “Also have been what has kept Bilbo alive? I mean everybody was so surprised he came through, and if the magic was real, wouldn’t it, well, try to keep him alive as long as possible.”

Fili stops and turns to his brother. “I wouldn’t know,” he answers honestly, “Maybe Ori or Balin know, but it does make sense.”

The idea is almost reassuring. To think the magic did not just drain Bilbo’s blood and weaken him, but in the end protected him. It fits with the theory of a special connection required in order to activate it – but Fili is not keen on exploring. He is glad the Arkenstone has been buried together with his uncle and he has not hesitated in returning Thranduil’s white gems.

Magic and magical items, Fili thinks, have caused enough grief for the line of Durin. And though the mountain has been won back by blood and magic, he will build his rule on trade and contracts.

He knows what blood tastes like and how it feels to have magic running through your veins. It is not a pleasant feeling.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm still blundering my way through tumblr: [paranoidfridge](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge). One of these days, I hope I figure it out.


	35. Shrinking Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A curse cast by a passing, not particularly skilled magician causes Bilbo to shrink. At first it appears an annoyance, but as time passes and the curse remains effective, Bilbo realizes his situation is more serious than expected. The cure, too, turns out to be something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest installment so far. Almost 15k words and really, that is a bit much for a chapter. When I started penning down the idea, I was thinking 5-6k perhaps. Also, no warnings since this does not go beyond slightly angsty and is fairly light-hearted in general. 
> 
> Many thanks to [strifingartist](http://strifingartist.tumblr.com/) who betaed this entire little monster in a record short time.
> 
> And [tosquinha](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/) did a [sketch](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/115244663667/i-missed-doing-my-fic-recs-so-tonights-shrinking) of Bilbo getting smaller and smaller. ^__^

Winters in the East are fierce and troublesome. Blizzards from the north bring snow and howling winds and on some days even the short road to Dale is all but impassable. Within the mountain however, a clever system of pipes and hot springs warms all rooms, from storage chambers to the great halls.

Bilbo does miss going outside, even though he is kept busy by either helping Ori in the library or offering counsel during court sessions. He hadn’t expected to grow so well-respected in a kingdom of dwarves – new arrivals still side-eye him from time to time – but his experience settling the quarrels of stubborn hobbits helps. As does the fact that both Bard of Dale and Thranduil rather like him.

Instead of traveling back to the Shire, Bilbo has grown used to settling his affairs through mail. The ravens do not mind traveling the distance in the summer months and after an initial hiccup, Hobbiton apparently has accepted his new manner of doing business. He still will have to return at some point in order to find out whether they are actual doing business according to his instructions or simply pretending to.

Though, a dwarven caravan passing through the Shire took a look at Bag End on his request and reported everything mostly in place. Bilbo hopes the small sack of gold coins he sent to the Gamgees eventually arrived.

But he won’t know before spring comes. Meanwhile, he sits next to Thorin and listens to dwarves quarrel about concessions, the quality of stone, and obscene beard styles. Today, however, they surprisingly receive a visitor.

A tall man, claiming to be a wizard walks up to the platform before the dais, bows shortly. And then presents a demand that makes Thorin mid-goldsickness look rational. The entire assembled court watches in spellbound fascination, though Balin manages to be civil when turning the wizard down.

Which results in high-pitched shouting from the man, who attempts to curse Thorin, Balin and everybody else up on the dais. When that fails, he tries to summon an ancient demon but even Bilbo can tell that most of the words he mutters must be made-up.

“Not very skilled, is he,” Dwalin mutters as the man continues to invent spells that have no effect, “Shall I?”

Thorin nods. “Yes. Please.”

And that’s that.

***

Bilbo wakes up leisurely. Warmth surrounds him and he feels as if he is swimming amisdt the bedding. The pillow seems extra fluffy and large when he attempts to wrap his arms around it. With a yawn, he rolls over, stretches and finds the corner of the bed still well out of his reach.

Dwarvish beds, he thinks, are too large, and this is ridiculous. Almost as bad as the beds of men he had gotten to know on one less than lucky stay in Bree. His current bed is  strangely the same size, he realizes upon opening his eyes. His stomach sinks. Last night the bed certainly had not been quite so large. Neither had the rest of the room felt so huge.

“Oh, come on,” Bilbo groans. Looks down at his hands – perhaps it is just him, but they seem smaller against the coverlet. Which, he realizes, does not make any sense.

But – his hands are smaller. And it’s not just his hands. His entire body seems to have shrunk. Which ought to be impossible. He’s an adult hobbit – he’ll only shrink once he starts getting old and fragile. Decades from now. And even then, he’s unlikely to lose this much height.

Something unpleasant curls in his stomach. Involuntarily he recalls the man claiming to be a wizard the day before – none of his made-up spells had shown any effect. He’d been a fake. But, then, Bilbo wonders, why is this happening? Already displeased with how his morning is unfolding, he finally climbs out of his bed.

And finds the bed twice as high as before. If the bed, last night, had been roughly at level with his knees; it is now level with his waist. Bilbo is torn between just crawling back into bed to sleep and ignoring this most recent disaster, and facing the day. Sadly enough, his Erebor is a place mad enough for this to actually be real.

Bilbo is still enough of a responsible Baggins to address this latest problem. Even if his nightshirt slips off one shoulder the moment he moves.

He wants to bury his face in his hands and cry. Thorin had been the one to kick out the stranger – Bilbo had only stood next to him. He hadn’t even looked at him weirdly, why ever had that obviously mad wannabe-wizard even taken notice of him?

With an atypical curse, Bilbo strips out of his now overlarge nightshirt, flings it to the side and stomps over to the closet. The handles are on level with his shoulders, which is more than mildly disconcerting. He has to stand on his toe tips to even reach the cloth hangers. And that is before he has even found any solution to the fact that none of his well-tailored robes so much as fit.

Dressing poses a number of unusual challenges, but Bilbo is nothing if not resourceful. The belt he once borrowed from Thorin is long enough to wrap twice around his hips and holds the trousers in place, even though he needs to fold up the seams so they don’t drag on the floor. There’s no helping the coat, but at least dwarves do like dragging coats.

And even though he manages to make the best out of his wardrobe, he’s not taken five steps outside before the whispering starts. Bilbo catches some of the guards staring from the corner of his eye, but it’s too early in the morning to address it. So he snorts, tilts his chin up and marches straight to the royal dining rooms.

However, Kili and Fili have no inclination to postpone their excitement until after Bilbo has had breakfast.

“Bilbo!” Fili exclaims, “What happened?”

Bilbo is more than disgruntled to find Fili practically towering over him, but before he can reply, Kili has whisked him off his feet. “You look adorable!” he proclaims, “Is that some hobbitish phenomenon? Do you shrink once a month?”

“You’d have seen that already,” Bilbo grumbles, helplessly dangling from Kili’s hold, “Put me down.”

“Ah, don’t glare at me like that,” Kili protests but places him back on his feet, “I think this size suits you just fine. Is it permanent?”

By now everybody is staring and a part of Bilbo contemplates storming back to his bedroom, going back to sleep and hoping it’ll all be over once he wakes. Instead, he shrugs and makes his way up to his accustomed place at the table.

“I’d like to know that myself,” he tells the room in general, “Though, I suspect that fake magician from yesterday.”

“Oh right,” Balin mumbles, “He made up some spells, didn’t he? I just thought he was a fraud. Well…”

“Seems he wasn’t that much of a pretender after all,” Nori chuckles, “Though perhaps still not overly talented at magic if his curse takes effect long after he’s gone.”

Bilbo’s lips twitch with sarcasm. “Very funny,” he grumbles.

“Ah, don’t be like that,” Kili calls out and ruffles his hair, “I’m sure it’ll wear off soon enough. Just view it as a chance to gain new perspectives.”

“Of being half everybody else’s size,” Bilbo says drily.

Gloin clears his throat. “Well, admittedly, that may not be so different from your usual experience, begging your pardon.”

Begging pardon or not, Bilbo nails Gloin with his darkest glare. “Thank you, but contrary to your opinion, I am not quite that small.”

“He’s right,” Dori says and pushes back his chair, “Look at the way his clothes fall. One day or not, that won’t do, Master Baggins. Come with me after breakfast and I’ll find you something fitting.”

“There’s probably some old children’s clothing left,” Fili cheerfully adds and Bilbo wonders if he is allowed to strangle the crown prince. But even Thorin’s lips twitch and the expression is so rare on their King’s face, Bilbo feels his anger drain.

“Alright,” he says to Dori, “But no children’s clothing. And let me eat first.”

***

While Bilbo can’t quite eschew the children’s clothing entirely, Dori is thoughtful enough to choose formal pieces that don’t look out of place in court. Bilbo meanwhile contemplates eschewing court altogether – his predicament is ridiculous enough and he really doesn’t need to have the entire mountain talking about it. Especially since the boredom of the long winter months has already sent the rumor mills into a frenzy.

Little news reaches the mountain now that the roads are snowed in and the lake has frozen. They have daily runners between Erebor and Dale, but those stories have long since ceased to be interesting.

Bilbo wonders if the false magician also passed through Dale and cast a similar curse there.

“Stop daydreaming,” Dori admonishes and folds up the seam of Bilbo’s outer coat. The hobbit nods and still resolves to send a raven down to Dale the moment he has finished here. Perhaps the men of Dale have already found a cure.

“Well, this is as good as it gets,” Dori announces after another while of stitching and folding. Bilbo inclines his head gratefully and stretches – the fabric clings in unfamiliar places and sits slightly awkward – but at least his shirt is no longer in danger of sliding from his shoulders and his trousers aren’t held up onlyby suspenders.

“Thank you,” he tells Dori, “This will do nicely.”

Dori returns a somewhat wry smile. “Well, if you shrink further, we do have to get you a new wardrobe. This will work for now, but it’s certainly no lasting solution.”

Bilbo grimaces. “I rather hope this wears off.”

***

With his better fitted coat firmly wrapped around his shoulders Bilbo contemplates joining Thorin for open court today. On occasion his advice has been both welcomed and helpful – and he himself had been reminded how similar the affairs of a state can be to those of quarreling tenants. He hopes his letter to the Thain managed to arrive before any of his grubby-handed relatives have him declared dead, too. But as long as winter lingers, the roads over the mountains are impassable.

Court, he decides as he catches two dwarves stare at him in obvious bewilderment, is out of the question in this form. The library, then. He enjoys Ori’s company and the stacks of books are tall enough to hide even Thorin.

He hasn’t quite taken the stairs into consideration. Bilbo curses, huffing for breath when he reaches the top. With his body size shrunk in half, climbing up has abruptly turned a challenge and his knees ache. He certainly won’t visit the aviary anytime soon.

Grumbling to himself, Bilbo turns to the familiar corridor. His new size has somewhat skewed his perspectives. The already tall corridors feel higher and wider; the statues seem to tower over him.

Lifting heavy, ancient tomes has also become twice as exhausting. And when he carries one particularly large book to his desk, even Ori stops him, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe how tall that book is,” the young librarian comments, “I mean, compared to you. It’s almost half your height.”

Bilbo snorts. “I’m half my height.”

By afternoon a helpful soul has spirited a ladder his way and stacked cushions on his chair so he can still read sitting down. Bilbo, however, is well fed-up with the situation and retires before the evening meal.

***

“Master Baggins?” Thorin calls and Bilbo casts a wary glance toward the door where a knock sounds. He’d hoped to be asleep by now, but his thoughts won’t stop turning.

“Come in,” he replies.

The King steps inside and Bilbo sees he is still in his court robes, though he has taken off the crown. Dark circles line Thorin’s eyes and the slump to his shoulders speaks of exhaustion.

“You did not come to dinner,” Thorin says, “Are you sick?”

Bilbo sighs. “I had something brought up. Honestly, I’ve had enough of the commentary for today.”

Thorin nods thoughtfully. “I could tell - or maybe it would be better if you told them. I don’t think anybody meant harm. If it annoys you, just let them know. You know they don’t want to offend you.”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo replies, “And I know it’s pretty boring right now, so everybody will latch onto whatever they hear. Gossip’s been terrible, if you heard.”

“I’m afraid most gossip does not reach my ears. One of the disadvantages of the crown.” Thorin gestures to one of the chairs in askance and Bilbo nods in return. The King cannot quite suppress a relieved sigh as he sinks into the cushions.

“Oh, so you haven’t heard about your latest conquest?” Bilbo returns easily, “Or the fact that apparently Bard has fled to Mirkwood and Dale is now populated by magical ice golems?”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid not. But ice golems… their fantasy knows no bounds.”

Bilbo is uncomfortably reminded of the false sorcerer of the day before. One of whose curses ended up working.

When he remains silent, Thorin eventually speaks up again: “Actually, I came to ask – are you affected in any other way? Did you see Oin? He’s not familiar with magic, but if anything comes up, I’d rather –“

“I’m fine,” Bilbo interrupts, “Really. There’s no need to see Oin, because nothing is wrong with me except, well, this. It’s a bit of a hassle, but that’s what it is. Nothing too terrible.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitches. “I’m glad to hear that. Truly. And I have to admit your predicament is, well…”

“Entertaining, I know.” Bilbo sighs.

“Do you know how long it will last?” Thorin inquires.

Bilbo shakes his head. Among the man’s creative invention of fantasy spells, several obscure time references had been invoked. However, taken together, the majority of them are likely to cancel each other out and Bilbo has no way of knowing how the magic will actually work.

“It might wear off,” he suggests. In truth he hopes to wake tomorrow and find everything back to normal, “I think curses like this usually do.”

A small frown crosses Thorin’s face. “I’m afraid I have no idea,” he says, “And if you think so, we’ll just wait. But if anything starts to affect you, or anything goes wrong – we can send a messenger out. The weather’s bad, but it’s not impossible.”

Bilbo can’t help but smile at Thorin. “I know, and thank you. But it’s not necessary – I think time will be the best cure for this.”

“Very well,” Thorin decides and then proceeds to ask Bilbo’s opinion on a dispute concerning the diamond trade with other dwarven kingdoms. Their conversation continues deep into the night – and midnight passes without the curse breaking.

***

When morning dawns, Bilbo is still half of his regular size. At least today he does not need to fumble with his wardrobe – but he is still greeted with exhilarated laughter at the breakfast table. Kili and Fili spin tales of him shrinking further – and what that could be like, having adventures on the breakfast table.

Bilbo makes no effort to keep the dread at that vision off his face. He smacks them both with his spoon, before returning to his – quite large – bowl of porridge. Strangely enough, he has begun to feel full, which has never happened before.

But then again, his stomach size is probably also reduced by half. Bilbo casts a wary glance down at his plate and decides not to go for seconds. The kitchens won't complain - he knows they worry whenever the roads close down and Erebor has to rely on her stores.

***

The novelty of Bilbo’s new size wears off fairly soon. Most of the dwarves are content to shrug it off as an odd magical mishap and don’t treat Bilbo any different for it. There is one instance where a fairly recently arrived dwarf stops Bilbo on his way to the King’s chambers and asks him if he’s gotten lost. Offers him help on finding his family, too.

Fili who sees the scene accidentally, is bowed over giggling and does not help Bilbo before the dwarf firmly insists on not letting Bilbo move along on his own. He is fairly embarrassed once his mistake is revealed to him, but Bilbo has to live through Kili and Fili poking fun at him all through dinner.

“Aye, but he does look like a wee little thing,” Bofur agrees cheerfully and if Bilbo had less manners, he’d upturn his stew over Bofur’s head. The fact that he currently would have to climb atop a chair to reach said head has nothing to do with it.

The rest of the company laughs, and while Bilbo manages a smile, he feels slightly left out. He can see how it’s funny to them and even he realizes half of his newfound difficulties are slightly ridiculous – but he’s always been smaller than everybody else and why couldn’t he have been cursed to grow taller instead?

***

“Awww, look who’s there,” Kili exclaims when Bilbo comes across him the following day, “You know, I had almost the same coat when I was that small. It really suits you.”

The coat in question is dark blue with silver seams and dark fur. It used to be child’s coat – Bilbo knows that – but as temperatures dropped last night he’d picked the warmest thing from his limited wardrobe.

Of course Kili had to notice it was a child’s coat.

“Trust a child to recognize their own,” Bilbo returns a bit sharper than intended.

“But you do look very cute, Master Baggins,” Kili affirms, though Fili catches the downward turn of Bilbo’s lips.

“Dwalin’s waiting, Kili,” he reminds his brother, “Let’s leave our burglar to his books.”

Bilbo nods at Fili as the princes disappear down the corridor. He’ll have to thank him sometime – he knows Kili means no ill, but with each morning he wakes to find his height unchanged, his mood sinks. Being cooped up in the mountain doesn’t help.

Perhaps, Bilbo thinks to himself, he’ll brave the outside anyway, even if the curse doesn’t abate. Seeing the sun might do wonders for his mood.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Today he is going to take up his position on Thorin's left and be the voice of reason in court. Even though he has found that he has to speak a little louder to be heard in his shrunken body.

***

Something has changed again, Bilbo realizes upon waking. Perhaps, he hopes for a moment, the curse has vanished. But the mattress feels as spacious as ever to him and when his fingers grasp the covers, the feel is much thicker than usual.

His stomach sinks and he opens his eyes.

The ceiling is distant. No, Bilbo thinks, please not. He turns his head sideways on a pillow that feels too large, larger than even last night, and the nightstand is enormous. When he pushes himself up, he is almost lost among the covers – and Bilbo realizes that right now is barely any taller than a toddler.

With a heavy sigh he buries his head in his hands. At least with his eyes closed he can pretend everything is normal – or rather that he hasn’t shrunken any further. But his stomach growls and he knows his friends will come looking for him if he attempts to skip breakfast. And won’t they be having a field day, Bilbo thinks glumly, shuffling over to the edge of the bed.

The floor, he realizes with a sudden bout of dread, is quite a bit away. If the bed had come up to his hips last night, it may now very well reach his shoulders.

He swallows. Glances up – everything, the chairs, the desk, the wardrobe, is again twice as tall in comparison to him. Bilbo curses the wizard in Sindarin before forcing himself to drop from the bed.

His perspective is skewed even further, the room now unfamiliar. Instead of the known surfaces, he sees table and chair legs everywhere and everyday objects seem gigantic – or, like the writing utensils on his desk, out of reach.

Bilbo grumbles and wanders over to his wardrobe, managing to reach the handles by standing on tiptoes and stretching. When he looks inside, he realizes he has no chance at reaching the cloth hangers and must therefore do with whatever he can physically grasp.

Like one week ago, everything is too large and hangs strangely off his body. The suspenders Dori adjusted for him don’t fit, but he finds a scarf that can now double as a belt. Not that the trousers sit very well on him, though underneath the too-long shirt and floor-length coat it won’t be particularly noticeable.

Bilbo sighs. He hopes the curse will wear off soon.

***

At breakfast Ori notices him first. He gasps loudly and Bilbo suppresses a groan when all dwarves turn to him and the clamor starts.

“Master Baggins!” Dori exclaims, scandalized, “You shrank again!”

Bilbo catches sight of a frown passing over Balin’s face, before he sees Fili and Kili descend, bright smiles on their faces.

“No,” he mutters, “No, no, no.” And brushes – somewhat rudely – past Ori, slipping underneath Gloin’s arm, and clambering up to the breakfast table. Where he finds the chair too high. It reaches his shoulders, so he should be able to climb up –

Two large hands grasp him gently by the waist and lift him up. “There you go,” Dwalin says, while Bilbo blinks in confusion at the sudden shift in perspective.

“Thank you,” he mumbles in return when he catches Fili and Kili eyeing him from the other side of the table with disappointment. They do return to their seats, and Bilbo finds Thorin studying him as well.

“The curse still lingers?” Thorin comments and Bilbo sighs, glancing down at his hands. They’re small next to the cutlery, and the apples on the table are larger than his fists.

“Yes,” he returns.

“Did your inquiry to Dale turn up anything?” Thorin asks and Bilbo recognizes the concern in his eyes.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Apparently that wizard did not pass through Dale.”

“We could always inquire with another wizard,” Balin suggests from his seat next to Thorin, “The ravens will be able to find them.”

Bilbo frowns uneasily at the breakfast spread. “If it doesn’t wear off…”

“If it doesn’t wear off, you will have to,” Dori interrupts sharply, “Because before long you’ll be so small we’ll all be needing looking glasses to find you, Master Baggins. And while I do have some skill at fine needle work, I doubt I could make you any clothes then.”

Kili snorts at that idea, and Bilbo is simultaneously horrified and amused. The idea is ridiculous – but the fact that he has shrunk again is undeniable, and they do not know when it will stop.

Bilbo catches Thorin’s expression darkening in concern and the king rises from his seat. “I will write the wizard immediately,” he announces, “Unless you do not wish me to?” He looks in askance at Bilbo.

The hobbit sighs and shakes his head. “No, no. I’d rather have this affair resolved before it becomes too troublesome.”

***

And his new size is troublesome. If the last few days he cursed at tall shelves and ill-fitting clothes, he now has to warily accept that all his shirts double as dresses and he must watch out in order to not be run-over. The dwarves stare in wonder, and make Bilbo uncomfortably aware that even in their eyes he is little taller than a toddler.

Most of the time he makes sure to trail after a member of the company. Balin, Gloin and Oin don’t comment on his size, and Dwalin makes an effort, though Bilbo can tell the head of Erebor’s guard is constantly careful and attentive around Bilbo.

When the hobbit asks to accompany him outside – because being ensconced within the mountain does little for Bilbo’s fraying nerves – Dwalin fusses almost as much as Dori when inquiring whether Bilbo’s coat is actually warm enough.

“Don’t worry,” Bilbo tells him, “In case you have forgotten, I made it across the Misty Mountains in a dinner jacket. And Dori did adjust this one for me.”

Dwalin nods, though the concern does not vanish from his eyes. When they reach the exit, Bilbo is glad he accepted Dori’s offer. A cold wind meets them head-on and as far as Bilbo can see the ground is covered in snow. He huddles deeper into his fur-lined coat, while Dwalin looks to him.

“Sure you want to go out?”

“Very much so,” Bilbo grumbles and marches past Dwalin. The road connecting Erebor to Dale remains usable, though the moment Bilbo takes a step off – intending to follow his usual route to an overview to Erebor’s right – the snow under his feet gives way and he sinks in up to his ribcage.

The situation does not improve when he takes a second step, depositing him right into the depth of the snow. It’s strangely similar to wading into one of Hobbiton’s shallow lakes – Bilbo has to raise his arms to keep them above the snow level, and when he attempts to move forward he needs to push with his entire body.

“Are you alright?” Dwalin asks.

Bilbo turns around to glare at him. “This is ridiculous,” he declares. Ridiculous, and also a bit frightening because the snow has piled so high he sees little else but Dwalin, because he is close and tall from Bilbo’s perspective.

The overlook is entirely out of sight and even though Bilbo knows it is not far, the way there now feels unsurmountable. His heart sinks – he had hoped to at least be able to escape from the curious gazes, but the world outside the mountain is plainly hostile to him now.

Dwalin directs a wry grin his way. “Shall I clear a path for you?”

And even though Bilbo knows that there are far more important tasks Dwalin ought to be doing, he finds himself nodding.

***

The cold air helped him to regain his equilibrium and he makes it cheerfully through dinner, even though he has to stand on his chair in order to reach the table. Dori clucks and shakes his head at Bilbo, muttering under his breath.

Thorin is the one who cannot keep a frown off his face and Bilbo wonders what the reason may be. Perhaps he should not have skipped court in order to make his excursion - who knows what troubling matter was raised.

So once he's done eating (shamefully early for a hobbit, but the dinner plate now is larger than his stomach so there is no way he could realistically finish off Bombur's stew), he waits for Thorin to rise and silently follows after him. Luckily, none of the other members of their company sees it fit to comment, and the corridors leading up to the royal wing are mostly abandoned.

However, he has to jog in order to keep up with Thorin's long strides and it is an utterly uncomfortable sensation.

"Thorin, you seem worried," Bilbo begins, once he catches up, "Is something the matter?"

The King frowns at him and slows down. Bilbo has to crane his head backwards to look up at him, and swallows at the realization that currently his shoulders line up with Thorin's knees. He vaguely remembers being that small as a young child - it's not a sensation he particularly missed.

"It's nothing," Thorin answers, "Don't let it worry you too much."

Bilbo raises his eyebrows. "What did your counsellors suggest? Marching on Dale? Attacking Mirkwood?"

Thorin chuckles. "That and an expedition to the Grey Mountains. But do not fear, I turned them down."

Bilbo nods. "Well, that's good, though it doesn't explain your strange mood. You were frowning all through dinner."

They have reached Thorin's chambers and the King asks the hobbit inside. Bilbo follows, immediately heading for his favorite armchair - to find it agonizingly high. He'll have to climb, he resolves because Thorin lifting him like a child would be a severe blow to his pride.

Before he can start the task, Thorin pushes an ottoman in his direction. It's half the height of the armchair and come up to Bilbo's hip. And even though it's easier, he still thinks he must look ridiculous, climbing his way up.

"This is annoying," he huffs once he's nestled himself among the pillows, " I feel like a three-year old."

Thorin merely nods his head. "I will admit, the description has come up. However, are you certain we should not contact a real wizard? The ravens have a way of finding Gandalf, I believe."

Bilbo sighs. "If this doesn't improve in a fortnight or so, yes."

Thorin frowns. "I'll write tomorrow. It might be better to do it now than to wait."

Bilbo grimaces. Should Gandalf learn of his predicament, he doubts the wizard will ever let him forget about it. Depending on his mood, the whole of Hobbiton may learn of it, too.

"Think about it, Bilbo," Thorin continues, "What if the curse doesn't wear off? What if you end up shrinking further? The situation is already a hair's breadth away from being dangerous."

Bilbo nods glumly. He's kept that notion at a distance, but cannot ignore the truth in Thorin's words.

"I talked with Dwalin earlier," Thorin says, "He told me to tell you not to leave the mountain on your own."

Thorin's mouth twitches without humor. "I know, I won't tell you too. But I ask you to consider the danger. At your height, falling from this chair might mean you end up breaking something, and if you fall and disappear into the snow, we have no way to find you."

There's something almost pleading to Thorin's words and Bilbo's frustration evaporates. "I know," he tells Thorin, "I'm aware of the danger, but this is just ... Well, it's horrible."

Thorin nods in understanding. "I'll write to Gandalf tomorrow. The sooner the matter is resolved, the better for everybody."

***

While Thorin pens the promised letter, Bilbo is distracted by Bofur shortly after breakfast. "Do you want to come with me into the mines today?" he asks, "We found an amazing deposit of diamonds, I think you will like it."

"Is it safe?" Dori inquires from behind them.

"Quite so," Bofur cheerfully agrees, "Stable walls, even ground and it's even mostly dry. What do you say, Bilbo?"

Bilbo frowns, but while the mines may not offer blue skies, they do offer a change of scenery. And if he understood Bofur correctly, exploration of that mine has not yet begun, meaning there will not be any miners to stare at him yet.

"Why not," Bilbo replies. Bofur grins. "Great. Get your coat, it's a bit of a walk to get there."

Bofur leads Bilbo deep into the mountain. For almost thirty minutes they follow a winding corridor going down, and Bilbo wonders how exhausting it will be to climb up again. Though mostly, Bofur distracts him by sharing the latest gossip.

"There's a lass in the guard making eyes at Bifur," Bofur informs him, "And according to Ori she got three books on Iglishmek from the library. Bofur's not admitting to anything, though. Neither is Dwalin for that matter, though I'm sure he set them up."

"Dwalin?" Bilbo inquires with raised eyebrows.

"Ah, you didn't know him back in Ered Luin. People think Balin is the one they should be wary of, but Dwalin is actually responsible for Gloin meeting his wife."

Bilbo blinks. "Does Gloin know?"

Bofur's laughter booms in the corridor and Bilbo flinches at the noise. It's another little annoyance he has noticed - not only does he need to speak louder, but everybody else suddenly feels incredibly noisy.

"Of course not, and Dwalin will deny any involvement if you ask," Bofur returns. "Alright, we're here."

Bofur did not lie when he called the mine a pretty place. Bilbo isn't certain it is a mine - it feels more like a cave and within the walls gemstones sparkle. In the far back lies a lake.

"The water's warm," Bofur tells him, "But Thorin will have my head if I let you go swimming. Never mind that hobbits don't swim, do they?"

Bilbo told him that and can only nod. With his new height, he can only shudder in horror at the thought of climbing into the water. Navigating his tub has turned into a true challenge lately.

"So maybe another time. I was thinking about delaying the excavation - it's not as if we lack in gemstones. Maybe turn this into a communal bath or some sort of excursion site," he suggests.

"That is a nice idea," Bilbo agrees, "Especially in winter. I always thought dwarves didn't mind being shut inside a mountain, but it turns out they'll just gossip horribly instead. Having some places to explore might help relieve the boredom."

Bofur nods. "I was thinking the same. Ought to be better than gambling, though I believe Nori is likely to disagree."

"I think his betting and certificate trade business is keeping him busy enough. From what I heard the traders in Dale really took to the idea of taking certificates instead chests of gold along. Balin even mentioned pitching the system to Mirkwood to make trade a bit easier," Bilbo replies.

"He's creative, I have to admit," Bofur comments with a note of admiration in his voice. "Though, I brought food. Shall we have some?"

Bofur, it turns out, did not only bring food, but also a blanket, pillows and cutlery. They sit down and then the height difference is no longer quite so jarring for Bilbo, though the bread knife is almost as long as his arm.

In the end he can't quite eat that much, and has to reassure Bofur that his health is quite alright. When they start on their way back and half-way up the corridor Bilbo has to pause, gasping for breath, Bofur inquires a second time.

"Sorry," the dwarf adds after Bilbo reassures him breathlessly that he's quite alright, "I'm afraid I didn't consider that this must be much steeper for you. Shall I carry you the rest of the way?"

Bilbo shakes his head. "You could walk a little slower, though."

And as Bofur agrees, they eventually reach Erebor's main halls again. The way back up has taken longer than expected and it's past dinner, so they stop by the kitchens to pick up more food. Bilbo's legs ache and he is certain his muscles will be terribly sore tomorrow.

"We should do this more often," he tells Bofur when the dwarf delivers Bilbo to his chambers, "That was nice."

"Sure," Bofur cheerfully agrees, "There're quite a few nice places down in the mountain. Though we might wait until you're your own size again - there will be ladders involved."

"I do hope it wears off soon," Bilbo says, "As incompetent as that fake magician was, I'm surprised it has lasted so long."

***

The world has changed again when he awakens the following morning. Dread pools in his stomach as he struggles out from underneath the suffocating blanket - its weight doubled during the night. And his pillow - Bilbo swallows glumly.

He is only as tall as his pillow is long.

His room has become gargantuan. The drop from the bed to the floor is insurmountable. Long-suppressed fear spikes in his stomach. Bilbo drops down and can't stop that small, desperate noise that falls from his lips.

He hadn't wanted to contemplate it.

But now his nightmares have come true. He is too small to even leave his bed on his own. Dressing and going about his routine are completely out of question. And there is nobody he can call for help either.

If they came, they must now be giants compared to him. Bilbo swallows down the nausea, but the dizziness does not abate. His heart races as he envisions oversized hands reaching for him. Handling him like a toy.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, swallowed by his pillows with his head in his hands. Only when a knock on the door sounds, he jumps and manages to shout "come in" at the top of his voice belatedly.

If his voice is even heard, he does not know, but he hears the door opening. Wearily he gathers his shirt around his shoulders, though it is far too large on him.

"Bilbo?" A familiar voice inquires, and Bilbo's heart clenches at the concern coloring Thorin's words, "Bilbo, is everything alright? Are you in?"

"I'm here!" Bilbo shouts at the top of his lungs.

"Bilbo?" Thorin replies and now his footsteps approach the bedroom.

"Here!" Bilbo yells, though his throat begins to hurt.

Thorin carefully opens the door and Bilbo can see how his eyes wander through the room for a moment and miss him. Only when they return to the bed, Thorin catches sight of him and his face falls. With a few, long strides the King crosses the room and hovers indecisively next to the bed.

"It struck again?" he inquires.

Bilbo winces at the volume. And manages an unhappy frown in response.

Thorin purses his lips. "This is an ill development. I have not had any reply from Gandalf yet - I shall write Lord Elrond, perhaps he knows advice."

Bilbo nods, and somehow it feels like defeat. If he could shrug off the curse as an annoyance and inconvenience until yesterday, it is no longer possible now. "You have my thanks," he tells Thorin.

The King purses his lips. "This won't do," he decides, "I ... You should have somebody with you from now on. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but I think the situation has grown too dangerous."

As jumping from the bed is liable to give him at least a broken ankle, Bilbo cannot deny that. "I understand," he says, "And I won't mind. This is highly bothersome, after all."

"Very well," Thorin clears his throat, "How about Dwalin for now? I'll stop by later - or if you want to talk to anybody in particular, just let us know. We'll be able to make arrangements. I can postpone court, you know."

A spark of warmth fills Bilbo's heart and makes it feel a little lighter. "Thank you. Dwalin is perfectly fine company, so if he has time, I would not mind it at all. But don't postpone court - it wouldn't change anything."

Nothing but the curse spontaneously breaking or another, friendlier wizard turning up on their doorstep will change the situation right now, Bilbo thinks glumly and tugs futilely at the too-large nightshirt.

"Actually, there should be a piece of string on my desk - could you bring it over?" Bilbo asks.

Thorin blinks in confusion but does as asked and then watches Bilbo turn the string into a makeshift belt - at least this way he can move without having to risk the shirt slipping off and leaving him completely bare.

"Isn't there a court waiting for you?" Bilbo inquires impatiently when Thorin does not stop staring.

The King visibly flinches, before grimacing. "Right, I should - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"At this point being comfortable has become the exception," Bilbo snarks and chides himself for his temper. Thorin is not responsible for his predicament and if their roles were reversed, Bilbo can't vow he wouldn't have been bewildered and staring.

"I'll send another raven today," Thorin promises, "One to Gandalf, and another one to Radagast. One of them should get the message."

"Your court is waiting for you, Thorin," Bilbo replies and concentrates on keeping his voice even, "Some of these issues are more important, but I would be grateful if you could send another letter later or in the next few days."

"As soon as possible," Thorin promises thought the glint in his eyes says it will be written before noon. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Bilbo shrugs. "Clothes," he says and spreads his arms, "And food."

Thorin inclines his head. "I will let Dori know. And Dwalin can take you to the kitchens? Would that be acceptable?"

A trip to the kitchen means no fighting oversized cutlery, so Bilbo nods. "Of course."

***

Dwalin shows up moments after Thorin reluctantly left with a look of consternation on his face.

"Bilbo?" he queries, stepping into the room, "Thorin said it happened again?"

Bilbo stands up on the bed and waves. "Here," he calls, waving his arms for good measure. His stomach has begun making noises, so he is less concerned about the way Dwalin's face falls and more interested in getting to the kitchen.

"Mahal," Dwalin curses, stopping dead in the middle of the room. "I didn't -"

And Bilbo can only shrug. "It's gotten to the point where making my own way to the kitchen would be a rather dangerous adventure, and I've had enough of these. So if you don't mind..."

"No, no, not at all," Dwalin is quick to assure. He stops near the bed, uncertainly and Bilbo has to crane his head all the way back in order the make out his expression.

"Just how..."

"Carry me," is on the tip of Bilbo's tongue, but he realizes that Dwalin is asking for the specifics. At this size, Dwalin can lift him in one hand, and that is an experience Bilbo associates with trolls and not one he ever wants to repeat.

When he fails to reply, Dwalin purses his lips. "You could probably sit on my shoulder."

Which is terrifyingly high above the ground, Bilbo thinks. Just staring up at it is making him dizzy. But he'll cling onto his dignity as long as he can.

***

It turns out he needn't have worried as they run into Fili and Kili on their way back. And while Bilbo adores Kili's youthful enthusiasm and oftentimes somewhat naive optimism, he finds himself rather annoyed at the young dwarf's cheerful reaction to his new size.

"That must be an amazing experience," Kili contemplates, "You could explore all the nooks and tiny tunnels in the mountain. Or ride on a rat! I'm sure Bifur could let you borrow some toy armor and you could pretend to be some ancient King in a great battle or so!"

Dwalin isn't moving simply for the fear of dislodging Bilbo, though while the hobbit works on finding the right words (without dampening Kili's spirits too much. For all his foolishness, they're all glad he found them again months after the battle that had almost claimed his life), Fili cuffs his little brother.

"I'm certain it is also frightening and highly impractical," he adds, "Think about how high a simple chair is in comparison."

Kili's smile dampens. "Right. And the rats..."

Bilbo shudders, "I'll hopefully never meet them."

The rats are one of Erebor's latest problems. With their stores filled and winter raging outside, vermin has sought refuge and while they haven't become a plague, their presence certainly hasn't been eradicated. The rats of Erebor - as far as Bilbo knows from Bombur's tales - are a ferocious and terrifying breed that even Smaug could not entirely intimidate.

"Yes," Dwalin snorts in agreement, "Now, I believe Gloin is expecting the two of you? Something about updating the books?"

Kili groans theatrically, while Fili restrains himself to a sigh. "We're on our way," he assures Dwalin.

"Though, Bilbo," Kili adds, "If you want to come along, we wouldn't mind."

***

Bombur is as surprised as all the others at Bilbo's latest loss of height, but seems to forget it completely when he marvels about the wine cellar they discovered that Smaug had not destroyed. The flasks he places on the table are slightly taller than Bilbo, though, but they both ignore it and instead concentrate on deciphering the labels.

Dwalin silently watches from the background and Bilbo feels guilty about not including him more - but he also knows that Dwalin is actually not overly fond of wine and prefers consuming food and drink over discussing it.

By the time they're done, Bilbo asks Dwalin to take him to Dori. "Drop me off there; I'm sure Dori can find somebody else to take me back. I'm fairly certain it will take a while."

He does, after all, need an entirely new wardrobe. And this time there are no children's clothes to be added into the mix - this one will have to be built from scratch. It is a terrible lot of effort for a passing curse, Bilbo thinks glumly, especially when they know that Dale's citizens have been making do with the cast-offs of their ancestors during this winter.

Dwalin clear his throat and interrupts his ruminations. "Don't mean to offend you, laddie, but Kili said something sensible."

Bilbo recalls riding on rats and can only blink. "What?"

"About going to Bifur," Dwalin clarifies, "His toy shop does have clothes for dolls - and yes, I know that's terrible - but that might fit and you'll have something for now. We can still go to Dori afterwards."

As much as Bilbo's self-respect cringes at the notion of "toy clothes", the rational side of his mind agrees that Dwalin has a point. "Alright," he sighs and slumps forward on his perch on Dwalin's shoulder, wondering when his life became such an unpredictable mess, "Alright."

The fur collar on Dwalin's coat not only provides Bilbo with a comfortable seat, it also hides him from the eyes of the dwarves they pass. As far as he can tell, nobody notices the minuscule hobbit seated on the captain of the guard's shoulder, but there aren't many people in the market. Thorin explained that the closed roads have led to the artisans concentrating on preparing for spring - fashioning jewelry and weapons that require lots of time.

Bilbo is curious about the wares he will see once spring arrives, but today he is happy when they enter Bifur's familiar store and it is empty. The dwarf in question calls a greeting from the back room and something Bilbo doesn't understand, but has heard often enough to assume is a standard market phrase.

Dwalin replies and without waiting steps around the counter and navigates them through the door leading to the store's back. Bifur sits bowed over a tiny model ship shaped out of copper and adding the last touches under a looking glass. When he sees his guests, he sets aside his tools and greets Dwalin - and doesn't see Bilbo until Dwalin mentions him.

Bifur blinks and the incredulity in his voice speaks volumes even if Bilbo doesn't understand the words. At least, however, Bifur makes no attempt to reach for him nor does he draw uncomfortably close - rather he listens to Dwalin's explanation and nods sharply.

"I just told him it's still the curse," Dwalin says to Bilbo before the hobbit can wonder just what Dwalin told him. "Also asked him about clothes."

Bilbo cringes.

It turns out, however, Bifur is able to offer a wide selection that contains more than the coats and armor of ancient kings. Bilbo finds that they are astonishingly well-made - and chastises himself for expecting anything else. Even if they are toy clothes, he does know how earnestly Bifur treats this business.

There is even a set of his own clothes from the beginning of their adventure - and Bilbo cannot quite say how it makes him feel. He knows that toy versions of the company have been circulating in Erebor, the other dwarven kingdoms and according to rumor even in Dale - but being presented with the clothes made for a copy of himself is disconcerting, at the very least.

Though that set is still a number of sizes too small, so Bilbo does not have to contemplate what it means to be wearing clothes meant to be a copy of his own clothes.

"That one might be a good choice," Dwalin comments and pushes a small, dark blue coat into Bilbo's direction, "Not as depressing as the black one."

Bilbo wants to comment that the black suits his mood just fine, but holds his tongue. Bifur procures another set of coats - those far more ostentatious, obviously made for the toy figurine of some ancient king. With a chuckle, Bifur adds a toy crown and sword to the wardrobe - and Bilbo ends up taking the sword.

"It's not very sharp," Dwalin says with a raised eyebrow.

Bilbo grins. "It doesn't need to be sharp. Poking out an eye does work with blunt ends, too."

***

Even though the dwarves try to keep him entertained, Bilbo himself eventually chooses to stay in his own quarters. Bifur helpfully fashions small ladders that make it possible for him to reach his bed and chairs - even his desk, but the height itself is frightening. Furthermore, there is little work he can do - even though Bifur produced a working writing set, reading books is a hassle. When Thorin suggests he rejoin him in court, Bilbo shoots the suggestion down.

He doesn't, he realizes, want the dwarves of Erebor to know how small he has become. The company knowing is almost too much at times - he has to hold his tongue and temper, since he knows it would be his frustration speaking. Sitting in his room and morosely contemplating his future does little for his mood, either.

Then, one afternoon, Kili and Fili burst into his room unannounced.

“Bilbo!” Kili exclaims far too loud, “Bilbo! We had an idea!”

“We just went outside to look after the ravens,” Fili says, “And Roac mentioned he hadn’t seen you in a while. They thought you were sick and were worried.”

Bilbo nods hesitantly. While he is glad to know his strategy of sneaking treats to the Ravens has worked, he isn't sure he likes the turn the conversation has taken.

“And then we were talking,” Kili continues cheerfully, “They are curious, Bilbo, the Ravens really would like to see you. They even offered to let you ride on their backs if you’re light enough! Bilbo, you really, really should do that!”

Bilbo wants to shakes his head. Really, the ride on the back the eagles was enough – the memory still gives him nightmares.

But it's been at least a fortnight since he has seen the world outside and lately the walls have been closing in. Anything - even something as terrifying as flying - is better than thinking about what ifs. Or contemplating nightmares where he shrinks until he is invisible. Where one morning he wakes to find his friends searching for him and shouting for them in return - only to remain unheard and unseen.

Something ugly twists in his stomach and Bilbo agrees quickly. It's not as if he's unused to being high above the ground by now, he tells himself. Days of riding around mostly on Dwalin's shoulder have forced him to adjust.

***

The ravens eye him curiously.

Bilbo swallows. Up close those beaks look sharper than he remembers. And at his current size, they will have no problem tearing him apart, either. He dares not let them out his sight, but he casts a hasty glance around and finds no place to hide.

Fili has settled him on the flat part of the ramparts and the nephews are watching him with unveiled interest. As are the ravens. Who easily tower over him, crowing curiously. One hops forward and Bilbo recognizes the greying coat of Roac.

“Master Baggins,” the old ravens caws , tilting its head. Seeing eye to eye with him is a disorienting experience and Bilbo belatedly remembers to incline his head. “Yes, Master Roac.”

“They did not lie when they called it a curious predicament,” the old raven says and Bilbo cannot quite shake the impression that the other ravens are laughing at him. “Magic is nothing to fool around with. But we will uphold our end of the deal, too.”

“Great!” Kili cheers before Bilbo can say anything, “I wish I could do it.”

Roac ruffles his feathers. “It is a great honor,” he proclaims huffily, “Master Baggins is well-respected by my kin, so we will allow it.”

Bilbo has his hands half-way up in the air to decline, when he realizes that Roac appears smug. Refusing this honour may literally cause ruffled feathers. So he takes a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you very much,” he mutters instead.

“Very well,” Roac croaks, “This is Vrac. He will carry you.”

Another raven hops forward, his build smaller than Roac’s and his plumage shiny black. Fierce intelligence glints in those black eyes and Bilbo swallows. “Master Vrac,” he greets politely and the ravens clicks his beak.

“Master Baggins,” Vrac returns, “Climb on.”

Kili and Fili of course offer no help and Bilbo is fairly certain the way he pulls on Vrac’s feathers must hurt, but the raven only fluffs his feathers once Bilbo is seated on his back. Kili and Fili watch in spell-bound fascination, while Vrac inquires if Bilbo is comfortable.

The moment the hobbit confirms it, the raven tenses - and drops head-first off the wall.

Bilbo doesn't realizes he is screaming until Vrac spreads his wings and transforms the heart-stopping free fall into a gentle glide. His fingers clutch the feathers so tightly it must be painful, but Vrac doesn't comment. With two powerful wing strokes he brings them up again, and the snow-covered road to Dale passes underneath them. Bilbo's lungs ache for air, and his poor heart races wildly, but he cannot deny the beautiful view spreading out before him.

Now that they've stopped falling he can feel the sharp wind pulling at his hair, and the bite of ice crawling through his clothes. But the cloud cover is uneven and sunlight bathes single patches of land in a golden glow. Dale lies before them, a patchwork of decrepit and freshly patched rooftops, smoke rising above them.

Vrac takes them higher and higher and the frozen plain of the Long Lake comes into view; far, far below. It is so far that it feels unreal, and Bilbo realizes he isn't afraid. Not when the burn of cold air in his lungs makes him feel alive.

Seeing the world spread out before him, wide and open and so tiny and far below dispels his worries. In face of this wide range of possibilities - of stone giants, orcs, goblins, magic, warrior, ancient kings and talking animals - his fate is no longer so peculiar. Others have faced worse and not despaired.

Patches of blue sky lurking through the grey clouds seem to promise a solution.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Master Baggin?", Vrac inquires.

"Very much," Bilbo replies, "Though I would have appreciated a warning."

The raven caws at that. "It wouldn't have been fun with a warning, no? You looked as if you needed a thrill to shake you up a little."

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would have fiercely protested ever needing a thrill. Respectable hobbits might choose a respectable venue of distraction, but even gambling was heavily frowned upon in Hobbiton due to its unpredictability. Bilbo Baggins, barrel-rider, lucky number and dragon-riddler, snorts. "Still, a warning would have been polite. I could have fallen," he admonishes.

"And we would have caught you before you'd have been half-way down the wall," Vrac replies, "But if you wish it - consider yourself warned."

Bilbo's hands tighten their grip automatically at least, though Vrac does not give him time to inquire as to what he meant. Instead the raven tilts them sideways and brings them into a spin that makes Bilbo forget any notion of up and down. The world descends into a wild blur of colors, sky and ground bleeding into each other.

Bilbo doesn't know how long they fly but when Vrac turns them back toward Erebor, the light has assumed the richer colors of dusk. His fingers are frozen stiff, his cheeks ache fiercely and he won't be surprised if he comes out of this with a cold. But for now he feels steady on his feet again.

Instead of the princes, Thorin awaits him and it takes Bilbo a long moment to reassure the King that he enjoyed the excursion.

"It was dangerous," Thorin protests, "I told them to pay attention, but it seems my words go into one ear and out of another instantly."

Bilbo straightens his little toy coat with a huff. "No different from usual, then," he returns, "And I needed this. They don't always have the brightest ideas, but this one had merit."

Thorin shakes his head. "That is not any manner to run a kingdom. Or treat a friend."

Bilbo wants to disagree. But this has gone on too long and taken too much of his energy. Today was a nice exception, but he has had enough of having to rearrange every single aspect of his life. It's bad enough he's rendered this small - and he is used to having been smaller than everybody except other hobbits for all his life - though having to rely on others for tasks as simple as getting to another room or being in danger of being stepped upon and flattened; he is truly missing his independence.

So he hangs his head. "They don't mean anything ill by it, I know. Just sometimes it's terribly frustrating."

And frightening. The prospect that any of them could pick Bilbo up at any time and do whatever they want to him is scary. Though he will not tell Thorin that, not when the king already looks worried enough.

Thorin sighs. "I'm really looking forward to having you in court again."

And then, with an apologetic nod of the head, lifts Bilbo up and places him on his shoulder. After the wind's chilly bite during the flight, Bilbo is glad for the warmth and if he snuggles slightly into the crook of Thorin's neck - well, he might just be afraid of falling off.

***

After his last loss of height, Bifur provided him not only with clothes but also a bed and some furniture. It is comfortable, so beyond the indignity of having to use what amounts to toy furniture, Bilbo cannot complain much. He does miss his own wardrobe, his own bed - though most of all he misses the ability to navigate Erebor on his own.

Still, he sleeps comfortably enough and in comparison, he thinks, he suffered worse during their quest or the tense days of Thorin's madness.

But when he wakes and finds his new bed too large, his clothes slipping off him again and the shelves of his room at the size of mountains, he cannot suppress that spike of blinding, mind-numbing fear.

Is this what insects see? Is this what being too small to be seen feels like?

Bilbo clutches the too-large blankets to his chest like a shield. His fingers shake, even though he tells himself to calm down and breathe. The other side of the room seems as far as Laketown appears from Erebor, the highest shelf appearing like the distant tops of the Misty Mountains. Even a simple book now is larger and wider than him - big as a house and he warily thanks his lucky stars for accepting Bifur's proffered toy house. At least here he does not have to fear being killed by a book falling over or being smothered by his own blankets.

He doesn't get up. They will come looking for him - he only needs to remain calm.

Still, it feels as if an eternity has passed before heavy, ground-shaking footsteps approach and the knock on his door is accompanied by a thunderous shout of his name. The tone is cheerful, though Bilbo flinches at the volume.

And then opens his eyes to Ori gaping at him in shock. "Oh dear," Ori gasps while Bilbo tries to associate the heavy footsteps he just heard with Ori who usually moves more quietly than all the other dwarves, "Master Baggins. This... Oh dear."

Bilbo grimaces, and has to realize that finer facial expressions may be lost on his friends at this point. Ori approaches him warily, as if afraid to spook him. "Are you alright? I mean, do you need anything?"

His voice is so loud the tiny mattress Bilbo sits on trembles. "New clothes," he replies and can see his voice whisking past Ori unheard. "New clothes!" He shouts at the top of his lungs and only now Ori reacts.

"Of course," the young librarian mutters, "Or course. I think Bifur ought to be able to help. But don't you want to eat something before? You need to eat, especially now, I think."

Bilbo's stomach has been too busy flip-flopping between despair and panic to even realize hunger, and he still isn't feeling like food. And really, what would he eat? It has been ridiculous, struggling with portions stacked as tall as himself the last couple of days and cutlery he could wield as a weapon.

Now he doubts he'll be even able to actually lift the cutlery by himself.

"Shall I take you to the others?" Ori inquires, interrupting Bilbo's thoughts, "I'll be careful, I promise."

Bilbo eyes the hand extended towards him suspiciously. It's large enough to wrap around and accidentally squeeze him to death. He knows Ori means no harm - he also knows dwarves are surprisingly strong and his poor hobbit body still suffers unintended bruises from a friendly slap on the back executed with too much force.

So he can't quite stop himself from flinching backward and Ori retracts his hand as if stung. "I could also just carry the bed?" He offers, hesitantly.

Bilbo gulps and tells himself to get over his shadow. "No, that's quite alright," he says because the prospect of clinging onto the bed for his dear life is even more frightening, "Just don't mind me. I'm ... just not used to this yet."

Ori nods and this time picks Bilbo up carefully, making sure he leaves Bilbo's head free. It does require a degree of arranging and Bilbo won't claim he is entirely comfortable, cradled like this, but at least he is in no danger of falling.

Even though the ground seems frighteningly far and Ori appears to move at incredible speed. It's like the Stone Giants all over again, Bilbo thinks as he is carried across once familiar corridors that now gape like strange mountain ranges.

Walking from his room to the company's shared dining room in the royal quarters might take him hours, if not days at this size. The outside world lies completely beyond his reach, and Bilbo has to swallow against the dread assaulting him.

It will pass, he tells himself. Gandalf will have received the letter by now; the wizard will come soon. And once spring comes to Erebor, all this will be nothing but a distant nightmare.

***

Bifur is fast becoming Bilbo's favourite dwarf. Not only was he quick to provide the hobbit with a change of clothes after the latest shrinking episode, but he also took care selecting items somewhat paralleling Bilbo's usual wardrobe. Which after Kili and Fili had conjured up images of frilly, pink dresses, had been a relief. And then Bifur had sat down and made even more. So even though Bilbo is a little taller than Bifur's index finger he at least can take comfort in familiar clothes.

He is also unceasingly gentle in handling Bilbo; never picking him up without warning and making certain not to move too fast or too abruptly. But the greatest thing about Bifur's company is, Bilbo thinks, perched atop a shelf in the dwarf's workshop, is the quiet. Even the most considerate attempts at conversation require Bilbo to shout and mealtimes now leave him with raging headaches from the level of noise. With the language barrier between them conversation is not possible, so Bifur hums under his breath as he works and bilbo alternates between watching and exploring the shelf.

The shelf houses a number of toys - dolls, wooden animals, toy houses and metal figurines. Some tower at twice Bilbo's height and some are even smaller than him. Though from this close he can only marvel at the detail. There is a set of four dwarves carved from wood, soldiers from their dress, their swords are removable and their faces painted to almost life-like detail.

Beyond them stands a wooden horse - probably stable enough for Bilbo to climb. He wanders past grazing farm animals, boars in war gear, a wagon drawn by goats and finds three miniature buildings. One is obviously modelled on the great hall of Dale in the days before Smaug: Bilbo recognises the building, but the colors and murals have changed.

He wanders into the next one, wondering what might lie beyond the unfamiliar facade and had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. Bilbo smiles as he begins to recognise typically dwarven patterns - and then has to marvel at the skill invested in this doll house.

The walls are set in bluish marble interspersed with white, a grand staircase leads upward and towards a plateau holding a throne. There is a resemblance to Erebor as Bilbo wonders if he has found himself in a model of another dwarven kingdom.

He's drawn from his contemplations by a loud sound from outside and flinches at the noise.

"Bilbo, Bifur - it's lunchtime!" Kili cheerfully announces and then adds something in Khuzdul. Bilbo grimaces - he doesn't particularly enjoy mealtimes currently, not when he has to watch out in order to not be squashed by a random hand or some falling items.

"There you are!" A voice explodes right next to his ears. Bilbo instinctively hunched over and spies Fili standing to the right of the shelf, eyes fixed on him.

Kili steps next to him with a grin. "Were you exploring Belegost? It's supposed to have been amazing. Maybe we should send an expedition there at some point."

Bilbo demonstratively clamps his hands over his ears and finds Kili grimace apologetically in return. He only wishes he wouldn't have to remind the dwarves each and every time. With a sigh he carefully steps to the edge of the shelf, making a point to not look down.

"Oh, look," Fili points out, "Is that supposed to be Dain?

Kili - with his hand stretched out to pick up Bilbo - turns to see the figurine Fili is pointing at. Bilbo, too, looks - and doesn't see Kili's sleeve swing his way until it smashes into him with full force and throws him off his feet.

And all the way off the shelf.

Bilbo's vision abruptly tilts, he sees the shelf fly by and the wind rushes in his ears and his heart has stopped and he is screaming.

Then his fall is stopped violently as thick fingers close around his body and jerk him from his fall so fast his head snaps back painfully. He gasps as the fingers close tightly and squeeze without meaning to; feels all the air leave his lungs and for a moment dangles half-conscious from the grip, the roar of his blood so loud in his ears it drowns out all other noises.

He struggles for air as the world sways and tilts and only grows aware of the others shouting his name when he’s settled atop a piece of soft fabric on Bifur’s work station. Black spots dance before his eyes and his arm throbs painfully – his entire body feels as if it had been trampled by an oliphaunt.

“Get Oin,” Fili, he thinks, says and he can hear somebody running away, their footsteps like small earthquakes to him. Overhead, the blurry shapes clear into Bifur’s and Fili’s faces, their expressions concerned though Bilbo can make out every single hair on Bifur’s eyebrows and the delicate beads of Fili’s beard swing like deathly bludgeoning weapons.

He hates being this small. The notion is sudden and violent and makes his eyes burn, so Bilbo closes them and fists his fingers in the fabric. He hates being so small and the world being so different – his friends sometimes feel like monsters and it makes him feel so terribly alone and he wants nothing more than for this to be over.

“Bilbo, are you alright?” Fili asks, trying to keep his voice quiet and still Bilbo cannot stop himself from flinching. He tells himself to stop being so emotional – he can wallow in his misery later – after all, his friends are not at fault. But when he tries to sit up, his entire shoulder explodes with pain.

With a choked gasp he collapses back against the fabric, white noise filling his ears as sparks of pain dance down his arm and all over his back. His entire shoulder feels utterly wrong, twisted and he wishes it would just be cut off.

Bifur utters something in Khuzdul, though the noise barely penetrates Bilbo’s mind. Fili hums in response and he catches Oin’s name again – and then the world blissfully fades.

***

Bilbo awakes to a giant eye hovering overhead.

He jerks up with a scream and finds himself pressed back against the mattress by one wrinkled, sturdy finger on his chest. His heart races even as he recognizes Oin’s features behind the looking glass while the dwarf frowns down at him.

“Not broken,” the dwarf announces and there is shuffling in the background. Bilbo takes a deep breath to calm his frazzled nerves; takes stock of his surroundings. He is on the toy bed – the one that is too large for him, now, and it has been removed from the toy house Bifur provided for him. But he can make out the familiar shapes nearby, meaning that at least he is in his own quarters – at least no strangers will bear witness to his misery.

“It should heal by itself if held still,” Oin declares and removes the looking glass to Bilbo’s great relief. His heart still beats too fast, but now he can make out the rest of the room – behind Oin there are Fili and Kili, as well as Bifur and Bofur. He can’t tell if there is somebody else as the light is too dim and the door too distant.

“Bifur could make a sling,” Bofur suggests.

Oin sighs. “I’d rather have the arm straightened out. Also, has there been any response from the wizards? This situation is getting quite dangerous, I believe.”

Fili shifts his weight. “There was a short missive from Gandalf stating he was too far to come to Erebor on short notice, but Radagast might be able to do so.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks. He had hoped that Gandalf would come, hoped his plight would be important enough – but in the end, he is but a small hobbit--a tiny hobbit, now. And maybe Radagast will know a cure, maybe there is more to the bemused, odd-looking wizard with a rabbit sledge their company encountered.

“He’d better hurry,” Oin declares as he collects his bags, “If our burglar shrinks any further, I won’t be able to help him if anything happens.”

Bilbo shudders.

“We might not even be able to see him anymore.”

He closes his eyes. Hearing the words spoken out loud sends ice through his veins. This fear he’d discarded as unrealistic and absurd now is a hair’s breadth away from becoming reality.

***

The first moment the attention shifts away from him, Bilbo collects his oversized blanket and retreats to the smallest, darkest corner he can find. He understands his friends, can see the rationale behind their concerns and actions – but he also cannot shake off the sense of despair assaulting him: the dark pit gaping in his mind and the fears that threaten to overwhelm him.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, doesn’t know how long he spends in his head. When the door opens and somebody enters, he does not hear it.

“Bilbo?” Thorin calls out, “Bilbo, where are you?”

Hidden behind a large tome of dwarven lore, Bilbo watches the King anxiously inspect the doll house. Thorin moves around, inspecting it from all sides, his hands hovering but not reaching in to turn things over.

At least somebody shows some sense, Bilbo thinks glumly.

“Bilbo?” Thorin repeats. Concern draws lines on his face and Bilbo feels his anger wane. Thorin was not the one to push him. And really, he isn’t that angry at the other dwarves either – if it had been any of them who’d been cursed, he may have easily joined in that cheerful ribbing they enjoy.

But being on the receiving end of it for so long, losing more and more of his autonomy has turned Bilbo sour. It stopped being fun when the height of his bed became an insurmountable obstacle. And it turned dangerous when a drop from the table grew liable to kill him.

He wishes his friends would understand.

“Bilbo, I’m sorry,” Thorin says, “Please. I’m sorry I didn’t stop them. I know you don’t like it – and please, just show yourself, I’m worried.”

With a sigh, Bilbo stands up and walks to the front of his bookshelf. “I’m here,” he calls out. His throat aches – he’s been talking loudly for too long, but there is no other option to render his voice audible.

“Thorin!” he calls for good measure and sees the King stop and turn.

“There you are,” Thorin exclaims. Bilbo flinches at the noise while Thorin crosses the room. “How did you get there?”

Suspecting his nephews of mischief, Bilbo thinks. “I climbed,” he answers with a sigh. It’s disconcerting. Up close, Thorin is a giant – his face larger than Bilbo’s entire body. He wishes the King would remain at a distance, as the size difference is more jarring up close.

But at a distance Bilbo is barely visible to Thorin.

“You shouldn’t have,” Thorin protests, “Oin said you should keep that arm still.”

Bilbo sighs. “Yes, he did. But it doesn’t matter, does it? The next time I shrink, I’ll be gone anyway.”

Thorin flinches. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs, “We’ll keep looking for you. And we’ll find a cure before then. Gandalf wrote –“

“That he can’t come,” Bilbo finishes, “And Radagast might come instead.” He shakes his head abruptly and tries to clamp down on the emotions bubbling in his chest. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’m not having a very good day.”

Thorin’s features soften. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I wish there was a way in which I could help you.”

Bilbo miserably looks away. Faced with Thorin’s honesty, his anger makes him feel ashamed. “I know,” he mumbles.

Thorin probably never heard his words. “I could tell them not to bother you. Would that help? Maybe if somebody from the guard took over for them – they might be more inclined to adhere to your wishes. Perhaps –“

“No, Thorin, it’s quite alright,” Bilbo shouts and his throat twinges, reminding him of the strain this has put on his vocal cords already. “You – it’s… I know nobody means any harm, and I’m not actually angry at any of you. This situation isn’t your fault, after all. But … I hate feeling this helpless. I don’t really like not being able to not walk to the kitchens on my own.”

His words draw a small chuckle from Thorin. “I do believe that. But you must let me know what I can do for you. This being Erebor – I do feel responsible. And I had hoped to offer you a better experience than this.”

“And this isn’t your fault,” Bilbo replies, feeling his cheeks heat up, “You couldn’t have known about that mad wizard, no one expected his spells to work after all. You aren’t responsible for my fate.”

“But I would be,” Thorin offers, “For the friendship between us alone. Bilbo, whatever happens, please do not doubt that I – and I believe I may speak for the others, too – will do all we can to help you. Even if you shrink further – please do not give up. We will find a way.”

Thorin’s earnest supposition clashes with the dark despair in Bilbo’s chest, and for a moment he is torn between those two. But though he doubts Thorin will be able to help once he’s grown too small, he does not doubt the truth in those emotions. The King means what he says and if the curse wins, it will not only take Bilbo Baggins but will also take part of the King under the Mountain with it.

***

He does not shrink the day after, but does not feel like facing the world outside. Instead he asks Dori to have some food brought to his room – tiny morsels are more than enough – with which he sits down in his blankets. Staring with glazed eyes at nothing, he nibbles at a tiny apple slice and wonders how long it will be until the next shrinking episode occurs.

It’s always been less than a fortnight. Once he shrinks again, navigating the doll house will become a true challenge. Already now the furniture is too high and he constantly has to readjust to distances and heights. But if he grows smaller still -

"Bilbo, Radagast is here!" Kili shouts and before Bilbo understands what is happening, a large hand picks him up and swings him around, nausea rises in protest, but Bilbo is too busy regaining his orientation to shout in alarm.

Footsteps echo like thunder, and Bilbo realizes Kili is taking him out of his quarters and he shrieks. Thorin promised nobody would force him outside; he swore they'd avoid that risk

But Radagast has arrived. Bilbo's chest tightens in anticipation. Will the wizard be able to help? Will he - it has been so long, he almost cannot imagine the curse ending. Hope has become a distant concept. And with Kili inadvertently shaking him like a rag doll, Bilbo feels closer to passing out.

When Bilbo's vision clears, they are in the throne room, though the nobles and guards have been dismissed. Thorin's crown sits abandoned on the throne, the king and Balin instead standing with Radagast. Dwalin has taken position next to the door, arms folded across his chest while Ori nervously fiddles with a book - Bilbo recognizes it as one of the few dwarfish spell books from Erebor's library.

A sense of tense anticipation fills the air and Bilbo realizes with the start that the dwarves are just as nervous as he is.

"We're here!" Kili exclaims and sets Bilbo down on a writing desk, the hobbit stumbling dizzily, "We're all set!"

He beams at Radagast, expecting hand waving and muttering and perhaps a colorful burst of magic. Instead, Radagast mumbles under his breath and steps closer. Bilbo tells himself to calm down, but his heart races.

And his stomach sinks when he sees Radagast's brows rise and his face twist into deeper lines.

"That is the curse?" Radagast asks, and somehow Bilbo has the impression the wizard does not grasp the severity of the situation.

"Yes," Thorin confirms with gravitas, "It has caused serious difficulty already and I fear what it may bring henceforth."

Radagast blinks. "In that case, why haven't you lifted it already?"

"We tried," Bilbo, Fili and Balin return more or less simultaneously. "Ori went through all the books on magic and we did everything we could think of," Kili adds.

"How can it be lifted?" Thorin asks.

"How?" Radagast echoes, befuddled, "The same you lift other curses like that."

"We have to find that fake," Dawlin states, "And cut off his head, then."

Bilbo shudders. Not only for the violent words but also from the desolate prospect of finding the strange magician again.

Radagast, however, stares at Dwalin in open bewilderment. He can't even seem to find the words to deny that option.

Oin clears his throat. "The leaves of the mythical etymiddsh tree, then. A tincture made from them is said to cure any illness."

"No," Radagast protests with growing frustration, "Not at all, not at all!"

"Pudding?" Bombur hazards, earning himself an elbow to his middle from both Bifur and Bofur.

Radagast shakes his head so forcefully his hat almost flies off. "No," he cries, "No. What are you even thinking? Have you ever heard a curse being broken through plants or murder in any story?"

The company is quiet for a moment. Then Ori clears his throat. "Actually, Hilmar of the Brownbeards did break a curse by dismembering its caster."

"Dwarves," Radagast utters in a tone of disbelief, "No, stop thinking of your histories. Stop thinking of war and riches - remember the old tales!"

"Oh," Kili utters, "You mean true love's kiss?"

Bilbo flinches violently. Fili casts Kili a look that explicitly questions his brother's sanity, while Oin dramatically rolls his eyes and Balin sighs in exasperation. Only Radagast displays shows no reaction and Bilbo cannot quite suppress the unpleasant notion forming in his stomach.

"Why, yes. Of course," Radagast says and the entire company freezes. "Don't tell me you didn't think of that."

The ensuing, dumbfounded silence must be answer enough that even slightly befuddled wizards understand. Radagast shakes his head, muttering about incompetent dwarves and other stubborn creatures and that nobody in this world seems capable of understanding magic any longer, though Bilbo's mind is frozen.

True. Love’s. Kiss.

"... What?" Dwalin asks eventually.

"Yes, what please!" Bilbo longs to add and only years and years of Hobbiton etiquette stay his tongue.

Radagast looks at them as if they'd all grown three heads and sprouted wings simultaneously. "... True love's kiss. It's simple."

"It's a normal kiss, isn't it?" Ori inquires dubiously, "Or are there any technical aspects that ought to be taken into consideration?"

He doesn't see Dori imitating a beached fish. Bilbo does and feels it is an apt expression of his own feelings on the issue.

"Perhaps the logistics," Radagast murmurs, "Due to the different sizes..."

Gloin grows bright red and even Dwalin sputters. Fili nods sagely. "Tongue would probably not work, I believe."

Thorin casts a short glare at his nephew while Bilbo is trying not to imagine being licked in a manner resembling a cat licking their young. Or prey.

"Just a kiss," Radagast affirms in a tone suggesting he is the only sane person in the room.

"True love must be the deciding factor," Balin surmises with a look that speaks volumes of what he thinks on the matter. Bilbo wants to shout his agreement, but Kili is quicker.

"Well, then, Bilbo, who is your true love? Are they here? If it's a hobbit lass back in the Shire it may take some time getting them here, you know..."

Bilbo blinks, flabbergasted as all attention is abruptly focused on him. Truthfully, he has not thought about love in ages. There were encounters in his youth, daydreams and crushes. But after the fell winter, after his parents passed his heart had set aside all romantic notions and settled for contendness instead.

"There is no one," Bilbo hears himself say, "I'm not in love."

Kili's face falls, though Fili tilts his head thoughtfully. "That doesn't need to mean anything. You probably just haven't realized it yet."

"So what do you suggest we do?" Gloin harrumphs and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"Only one solution," Bofur cheerfully announces, "Bilbo just has to kiss everybody until his true love is found."

Bilbo doesn't attempt to hide his groan. It fails to be noticed among outraged snorts and badly-concealed giggles.

"Then we should start right here, in this room," Kili declares, "I will go first!"

And before Bilbo knows what is happening or can even protest, giant Kili descends and presses lips the size of Bilbo's entire torso awkwardly against the top of his head. Naturally, nothing happens except for Bilbo's hair growing damp.

Kili straightens and looks disappointed when Bilbo's size remains unchanged.

Bilbo goes and hides behind an ink bottle, though he can't quite stop his heart from reaching out. "I do like you, Kili!" he calls, "Just not like that."

The youngest of their group nods and turns away. He will get over it, Bilbo tells himself - after all it's a red-haired elf Kili has a crush on, not a thumb-sized hobbit.

"Fili, you go and try," Kili suggests.

Fili looks as enamoured with the idea as Bilbo feels, so they both simultaneously decide to get over it as quickly as possible. Bilbo doesn't even have to let go of the ink bottle, though having to lean down so far means Fili's beard beads scrape over the table's surface.

Nothing happens and Bilbo almost sighs in relief. As much as he likes the princes, having one of them revealed as his potential lover would be more than awkward. They may be older in years, but certainly not any more mature.

And having Thorin Oakenshield as an in-law is not the most comforting prospect either.

"Hmm, nothing," Kili comments, "Maybe Ori?"

Dori sputters, while Radagast tilts his head. "How about somebody the halfling's age?"

Gloin glares at him. "That would be children here. Unless you mean we should go to Dale and just didn't tell us so that you could watch us struggle and laugh."

Radagast does not appears offended. "Oh, no, no, Master Dwarf. I am certain the person needed is within the mountain."

Balin's expression - a split second before on the verge of scolding Gloin and making nice with Radagast - switches to deep discontent and Bilbo wonders just why the wizard thought to not reveal that tidbit of information any earlier.

"Master Baggins is fifty. That is not even the age of majority for a dwarf," Fili says and Bilbo wonders if Radagast could be referring to somebody else in the mountain - not a dwarf. Due to his lovely experiences, his mind immediately thinks of Smaug, Gollum, goblins and orcs.

He shudders.

"Right, right," Radagast murmurs, "You do all count your ages in years. Nasty habit, that. No, I was referring to, well, I guess you could call it the age of the soul?"

Bilbo blinks.

"I suppose we may take that to mean anybody with a certain degree of maturity?" Balin questions, "Which would exclude both the young and the very old?"

Radagast nods cheerfully and Bilbo doesn't know whether he should feel relieved or not. At least the number of potential candidates is reduced somewhat. And yet it still leaves too many options on the table he would refuse on principle.

"Begging your pardon, but I'm married - that ought to disqualify me, should it not?" Gloin says tentatively.

Bilbo nods enthusiastically, while Radagast gives a small shrug. "I suppose so."

Which is not quite as assertive as Bilbo had hoped, but he is still somewhat skeptical of Radagast's cure altogether. They do however lack another wizard to consult and Bilbo is not willing to risk waiting until Gandalf arrives. By tomorrow he may be too small to be heard. The notion sends a cold shiver down his spine.

"Who is next?" Kili says, gazing expectantly at the gathered dwarves, "How about Mister Dwalin?"

Dwalin grimaces. "How about our King does his duty and goes first?"

Twelve heads turn expectantly to Thorin who appears flummoxed. He opens his mouth as if to protest, but no words emerge and Bilbo finds his own face oddly hot. Radagast merrily nods along, and Fili adds with a grin "Your turn, uncle."

The other dwarves chuckle in amusement and perhaps that is what brings the blood to Bilbo's face. After a moment, though, Thorin takes a step forward. Lowering his face, he catches Bilbo's eye.

"If you do not want me to ..." He offers.

And even though Bilbo is still unconvinced by the cure he knows he will not lose anything by trying. So he swallows down the unease rolling in his stomach and nods.

"Alright," Thorin says, his voice almost a whisper and a shiver runs through Bilbo. Then his world is cast in shadow as Thorin's hair falls like a curtain around him. A gust of breath hits his face and he feels warm, nervous - like a lad with butterflies dancing in his stomach. He closes his eyes on instinct. But the kiss is nothing but a soft, warm pressure against his head and over in a second.

It was gentle, Bilbo thinks. It reminded him of something, but before he can finish the thought the world changes violently.

A shudder runs through his entire body, and everything seems to explode outward. Something falls, wood creaks and he's off balance all of a sudden. The ground is tilted, but before he can fall over arms wrap around him. Fur brushes his skin, warm fingers touch his back - and he realizes that their size is normal again, these are no longer giant appendages wrapped around him.

The stone under his naked feet feels regular again, the cracks even. And Fili's astonished "it worked?" no longer sounds like a shout.

It breaks the spell of silence, too. As the dwarves start wondering and chuckling, Bilbo abruptly realizes he is stark naked and pressed against Thorin. The King holds firm, even when Bilbo makes to disentangle himself. Instead, Thorin buries his face in the crook of Bilbo's neck and his breath tingles the hobbit's skin.

"I'm glad you're back to normal," Thorin whispers low enough for only Bilbo to hear, "I am glad."

And Bilbo's head spins with the implications. The cure worked, he thinks. Radagast's cure of true love's kiss worked, and it was Thorin.

Thorin who steps back with a smile and wraps his coat around Bilbo before turning to their companions. Balin beams at them and underneath his expression of faint scandal Dori cannot hide a small grin. Kili looks surprised, while Fili chuckles in exasperation.

"True love's kiss, eh," Dwalin comments and waggles an eyebrow.

Bilbo feels the blood rise to his cheeks. But he feels no desire to deny it; in the end it does not truly feel like a revelation. For the words, after all, do not change that connection between him and Thorin. They name those feelings, but they do not construct anything that had not existed before.

And Thorin seems to feel the same as he raises his head with a wry grin and replies: "Obviously."

_ Fin _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* For some notes on the reasons of why updates happen so sporadically and reblogs of awesome fanart: [my tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge)


	36. Two Years to the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After BotFA Bilbo sneaks away in the night, knowing the dwarves live but believing himself banished. The dwarves, in turn, believe Bilbo dead until the misunderstanding can be cleared up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for #anunexpectedanniverdary on tumblr. (Links will follow soon)  
> Slightly angsty, but rather heavier on the sap. Also a bit on the short side, but alas...

The snow-capped peak of the lonely mountain looms in the corner of Bilbo's blurred vision like a threatening shadow. Blood and ice coat the ground, the sky grey and darkening. His head throbs and he does not know if the rushing noise in his ears stems from his own blood or the howling wind. He barely feels his fingers and toes, but has since stopped shaking. It's not relief and not an improvement - the pain in his temple has dulled to a throb, the aches in his body have faded to the background. So many lie dead on the ground, missing limbs, maimed beyond recognition.

Bilbo keeps his eyes fixed on the bleak horizon. Erebor towers to his left. But he is still banished - can still feel Thorin's hands around his throat. And while he knows the King under the Mountain has shrugged off his madness, that neither negates his betrayal or Thorin's pronouncement. Dwarven law is unforgiving, Bilbo recalls that from his studies. From the detailed wording of the contract he signed, from Balin's tales. And he knows he is guilty, regardless of his intentions. In the end, they meant nothing, not with Azog's arrival. The grief has hollowed his heart. Makes the fear and pain he suffered appear insignificant. No, Erebor offers no welcome to treacherous hobbits.

Bilbo hopes his friends - to him they are still that, though he does not doubt they will fiercely renounce that friendship - will prosper there. He knows at least some of the company live. Earlier he saw Bofur, Bifur and Bombur walk over the battlefield, helping to carry the wounded toward a makeshift infirmary. The others, he prays, have survived, too. After all they had endured, they do at least deserve to live and see the fruit of their desperate effort grow.

Bilbo slows his steps. The makeshift camp lies to his feet. Dwarves, elves and men work side by side to put up tents, care for the wounded and have order. Smoke still rises from Dale's ruins on Bilbo's right and he knows the city must be a nightmare. His own memories of the battle are blurred - getting separateded from Gandalf, realizing the city would be overrun, the mad dash to Ravenhill - He shakes his head. Dale is not option, and yet that leaves only the camp. Behind his back - to the north - the mountains rise steeply and must be crawling with the orcs that escaped. North will not allow him passage, but if he sets foot into the camp he is likely to find himself facing quick judgement at the end of a dwarfish axe.

Bilbo swallows glumly. Dull and dead inside he may feel, he does not want to die yet. So with a frown on his face he slips the ring onto his bruised and bloodied finger.

Even invisible, sneaking through the busy camp requires a great deal of stealth. More than once Bilbo has to dodge a dwarf or a man, jump out of the way of a quickly moving elf. His heart pounds loudly as he tries to both be aware of his surroundings and come up with a plan. Supplies, he will need supplies. His own pack is back in Erebor - even with the ring, he does not want to return. Does not want to face what his short-sighted actions lost him.

Bitterly Bilbo takes a turn to the left and almost slams into a familiar figure. "...says they found Nori earlier," Balin tells his brother, while Bilbo hastily presses himself against a tent, with his heart in his throat, "He's still out but Oin's sure he will recover. Dori will be glad to hear it."

Dwalin sports a bandage covering half of his face and moves stiffly, while Bilbo can see that the battle has drawn new lines on Balin's face. His arm is in a sling, though he moves with ease and Bilbo's heart skips a beat with relief. "So that means everyone's accounted for?" Dwalin asks gruffly, "Ori's helping Oin, Gloin's keeping Dain busy until Thorin wakes up. That elf's looking after the boys and Bofur said he's found his kin."

Bilbo's knees grow weak and he finds himself sinking to the ground. Alive, he thinks, alive. The fear he's not dared to face ever since he woke evaporates and the sensation is dizzying. His vision flickers and he hunches over, gasps for air. They're all gloriously alive. Beyond hope, beyond every sense of probability they all made it through and unless Balin is lying, they are all likely to recover. Bilbo's heart, whimsical thing that is is, trembles and shudders and flutters and soars at the same time. Something warm spreads through his chest. His heart pounds in time with the throbbing of his head. Grief, pain and happiness mix and Bilbo suddenly finds his face is wet. With a choked noise, somewhere between a sob and a laugh he wipes at them, smearing blood and dirt and tears and he has never felt less like a hobbit before.

But he'd do it all over again.

He doesn't know how long he crouches there, invisible, hidden in the shadow of a tent, shaking while dwarves, elves and men pass without knowing a thing. Never noticing the liquid staining the frozen ground. Only when the wind grows colder, Bilbo manages to pick himself up. Stands, takes a deep breath and glances around. His heart feel easier and the wind tugs at his worn coat. One more night. Then he will direct his feet home and leave this nightmare - this story of fear and grief and previously unknown happiness - behind.

***

"There's no trace of Bilbo," Balin tells his brother as they continue on their way.

A frown crosses the other dwarf's face. "Could he have left before the battle started?"

Balin grimaces. "Unlikely. Some of the men say they saw a hobbit in Dale earlier."

"They might have been wrong, though," Dwalin replies and takes a short glance at the dwarves milling around them. Ahead sits a large tent, decorated in dark blue with whatever fabrics at hand, "Could've been one of their own lads."

"If Bilbo left before battle," Balin says grimly, "I doubt he would have made it far unless he decided to swim."

Dwalin falls silent. They both know that hobbits don't swim - Bilbo had told them all in Laketown. After they had made their mad barrel escape. Their smallest member had, in the end, held much more courage then they all had expected of him, and Dwalin would rather not have him found such a bleak end. But it's unlikely that Bilbo would have braved the lake, and two orc armies had been approaching from the remaining directions. Small as he was, they would not have missed Bilbo.

"Let's hope he's found," Balin says, "He might be with the men still."

Dwalin nods. It's a reasonable assessment - after all Bilbo does not know that among the last words Thorin managed before passing out from his injuries was an unmisunderstandable pardon and apology. Their King will not be happy to wake up to find Bilbo missing. For that reason, Dwalin hopes both that Bilbo will be found soon and Thorin sleep yet a little longer.

***

The gods have never listened to Dwalin before, and neither do they now. One day passes, then another. Thorin awakens, but Bilbo is not found. The lads begin to recover and Fili harangues his way out of bed and back onto the battlefield. Together with Bofur, Bombur, Ori and Dori they search for their lucky member. Snowflakes begin to drift from the heavens, covering the lifeless bodies. The dwarves pile the carcasses of dead orcs and burn them, while the elves collect their dead to bring them home. Men have erected a funeral pyre on the shores of the long lake. Not ideal, Bard had called it, but with the ground frozen and so many wounded, there is no time to dig graves.

Kili's infatuation with the elf turns out a blessing in disguise. Though Tauriel is still disgraced, Thranduil has revoked her banishment and through the two of them Erebor and the Greenwood manage to establish a degree of diplomacy that allows for negotiations without anybody losing face. Dain finds it terribly hilarious and has since gleefully dragged Kili to all his diplomatic meetings. The unholy combination is causing severe consternation among the more traditional dwarves, but has turned out surprisingly effective.

Soon, Thranduil and his army leave. Dain has his main host make preparations to depart before winter sets in truly. The wounded will stay in Erebor to recover, and some more to help with reconstruction. With every day that passes, Thorin grows more into his role. And he is shaping up to be a good and just ruler, now that the madness has passed and the gold's curse has been broken.

But guilt bends his shoulders. They never find a trace of Bilbo. All that is left of their hobbit is his pack, abandoned in a cold corner atop a worn blanket. In the end, they cannot throw these last reminders away. Instead, Dori mends the torn shirts and Bofur suggest they plant the lone acorn from Beorn's garden. Thorin cries when a sapling emerges in late spring.

***

As the anniversary of the battle approaches, Balin broaches the sensitive topic of their burglar once again. Bilbo Baggins has become a legend among dwarves but the thirteen that knew him best rarely speak his name - or answer questions on why he was not there to see Erebor rebuilt. Balin has long since realized that as long as they do not announce it, they can all tell themselves that Bilbo must still live in his quaint home in the Shire. Live and thrive and be happy - and his fate is no longer their responsibility. But Balin has never been a dwarf to shirk his responsibilities, dreary as they may be.

"We need to write to the Shire at least. His relatives deserve to know," Balin tells Thorin in the privacy of a small council chamber. Thorin sits at the table, the crown carelessly set down atop of it. "And we could make sure he is remembered," Balin continues, because even if they can no longer thank Bilbo in person, they still can make a gesture for the world to see, "A stone tableau at the very least - you know Ori said that Bilbo's part of the story is popular. It'd be a good way to remember him."

"Aye," Dwalin chimes in from his place in the doorway, "Or at least give him a grave. Body or not."

Thorin sighs heavily and buries his head in his hands. Balin's heart goes out to him - he knows Thorin blames himself. Had he not banished Bilbo they could have made certain he stayed within the mountain. That battle was no place for a hobbit, no matter how courageous and brave - between hardened warrior, such a soft and fragile thing was bound to perish.

"I ..." Thorin hesitates, "I will think on it."

"Alright," Balin agrees, not wanting to push Thorin further. For all that he will not negate Thorin's part in this mess, he knows Bilbo's blood is on all their hands equally. Thorin may have pronounced judgement, but they did not protest. And neither did they stand up to their King when he was lost to madness and Bilbo was driven to his desperate, fateful gamble.

***

Eventually Thorin signs the declaration. Bilbo is considered dead. They will inform the Shire, build a grand statue. And a grave - down in the catacombs of the Lonely Mountain. He may not have been a dwarf, Thorin insists, but for his actions and valor he deserves no less than to be buried together with the line of Durin.

And right into the middle of these preparations bursts Gandalf with a piece of unexpected news.

***

In the Shire, Bilbo has attempted to reclaim his old life as much as possible. He has bartered, quarreled and even reached for Sting in his fight to get back his furniture and belongings. And still not all doilies have been returned.

Hobbiton has watched him warily. The Took side of his family was among the first to welcome him back into their folds, his cousins clapping his back and asking him to tell of his adventure. Bilbo is wary to talk much of it - his heart longs for peace and tranquility and the memories are too fresh. Nightmares become a constant bother and his appetite does not return. Of course that only inspires the wagging tongues. Coupled with the darkening shadows underneath his eyes some change their stance from disapproval to pity. Even Hamfast Gamgee who's only ever been respectfully distant to Bilbo dares to inquire about his health. And when Bilbo hesitatingly admits that he isn't well, his gardner displays a surprisingly deep knowledge of sleeping tonics.

It's a slow process, but between Hamfast and his cousins Bilbo begins to recover. The nightmares do not fade, but he finds he can at least tell inquisitive children about the more entertaining parts of his adventure. They giggle at the trolls, laugh at the dwarves' antics. And always, always they want to hear more. Their parents do not quite approve, but when Bilbo is the one to dispatch the lone wolf that wanders into the Shire that winter they do acknowledge that his skills have their uses.

And Bilbo learns that he will never again feel content with only his doilies and dishes. That opening a book now fills him with a heart-wrenching longing, that the distant silhouettes of the Misty Mountains will bring tears to his eyes if he is not careful. The hobbits around him are cheerful and friendly - but he misses the battle-forged companionship he shared with the dwarves. The trust that he himself ended up betraying.

It's an apt conclusion to his tale, Bilbo thinks. And while he knows he will never be quite happy again, never truly be alright because a part of his soul will forever be missing - he can accept this.

***

Winter turns to spring again. The days lengthen and the sun begins to warm. Fresh green sprouts from trees and bushes and colorful flowers return to Bag End's garden. Bilbo has just settled on his front porch with a pipe and close his eyes when the sound of running footsteps interrupts his quietude.

"Mister Baggins! Mister Baggins!" Hamfast's oldest comes racing up the path, waving like mad. Bilbo climbs to his feet. "What is it?"

The boy comes to a stop, panting and his eyes wide. Unease settles in Bilbo's stomach.

"Dwarves," the boy gasps out, "There's dwarves coming to Hobbiton."

Bilbo's heart sinks. Have they come for his head after all this time? Decreed his treachery could not go unpunished after all? "Thank you," he tells the boy and forces a calm smile on his face, "I'll see to them."

For a moment he contemplates going back inside to take Sting. But he's not skilled, no matter what the other hobbits may think. If a delegation of dwarves has come for him, he does not stand a chance. Instead he straightens his lapels, casts a wistful smile at his home - this may be the last time, after all - and sets off.

He'd rather not involve the rest of Hobbiton in this, but there may be no way around it now. Coming down the hill he hears raises voices and some hobbits he passes stare at him in fright. His footsteps quicken and for the first time he curses the hills and trees that shield Hobbiton from sight. When he finally turns the corner he freezes.

An entire host of dwarves occupies the grasslands and blocks the road. Some hobbits nervously stand near the road, but the dwarves make no move. Their armors gleam in the sunlight, their banners fly in the breeze. Bilbo recognizes the blue and silver crest of Durin. With a deep breath he forces himself forward, his heart pounds in his chest.

The moment he steps out into the sunlight, he is blinded and only hears a whisper arise. He blinks and sees something move. One dwarf moves his steed forward and then slides off. Three others trail respectfully behind. Their silhouettes seem familiar, but Bilbo has to squint against the sun to even make out their shapes.

"Master Baggins," a familiar voice greets and Bilbo freezes. He didn't expect to hear this voice ever again. It's haunted his dreams for two years to the day and he can see the sun reflect of a small golden crown.

And while he's frozen to the spot, Thorin Oakenshield faces no such restrictions. The dwarves' steps quicken until he's almost at a run and only comes to an aprupt stop an arm's length away. Trepidation makes Thorin's lips quiver and Bilbo can't hear his own thoughts over the racing of his heart. No hatred distorts Thorin's eyes and the glint of madness is gone. They're back to their clear blue and shine with affection and deep relief and it takes Bilbo's breath away.

He'd never expected to see Thorin again. Never dared to hope, thought himself hated beyond redemption. All the grief and pain he's felt - they now form one heavy stone rolling in his stomach as two years' worth of turmoil come to a head.

Hesitantly, almost reverently Thorin reaches out. With a crown on his head and a host of armed warriors behind his back he allows himself to stop and wait until Bilbo inclines his head and gives permission. Thorin's hand gently brushes past Bilbo's cheek before settling on his shoulder and Bilbo's entire body trembles. An indescribable emotion wells up in his chest while Thorin blinks back tears.

"There's ... Bilbo," he stammers in a voice so low only Bilbo can hear, "So much I, I'm sorry. I wronged you so greatly and I thought you were dead, I thought you'd gone and I would never be able to take back my words. To apologize. I, we all did you wrong and then you left and..."

And Bilbo knows the journey has left scars on him, knows he does look well. Too pale, too slender for a hobbit, but now he feels as if all of this does not matter any longer. Something heavy falls from his heart and it's as if spring has come after a long, long winter and a dark, devouring shadow slips from his heart.

"I thought you hated me," Bilbo manages in reply and for a moment all those terrible emotions he felt when sneaking away from the battle, when braving the long, cold road home alone are back with him and he feels his eyes filling with tears. "I thought you..."

Thorin cuts off Bilbo with gruff shake of his head, steps forward and opens his arms. And like so long ago, the embrace he enfolds Bilbo in communicates all that words cannot say. Bilbo wraps his own arms around Thorin's waist, buries his nose in the furs and takes a deep breath. His head spins wildly and his heart flutters in disbelief, at a joy he cannot yet graps. He has so many questions and still wishes they could stay like this forever. Wrapped in the warmth of Thorin's arms he can feel the unvoiced hurts drain from his body and that heavy burden of guilt at having destroyed their friendship fade. Similarly he can feel Thorin relax ever so slightly against him until, after an eternity, the King steps away.

"I am glad to find you well, my dear burglar," he says loudly, for everyone to here, "We all are. Durin's sons will pay their respect!"

A loud cheer makes Bilbo look up and he finds that the entire host is cheering. A shiver runs down his spine, he doesn't quite know what to say. Lobelia, a part of his mind thinks, will be appalled and jealous at the same time. To think that the King of Arda's richest kingdom - hobbits do know a bit of the world, though they mostly ignore it - traveled all this way to meet him and apologize. Bilbo feels his lips twitch upward, when a loud, cheerful shout of his name makes him study the armed figures closer and to his utter surprise he finds more familiar faces beaming at him. Dwalin inclines his head from just a few feet away, while Bofur waves cheerfully from the back. Bifur raises his spear and Ori lifts an axe - they all look so much better since Bilbo last saw them.

"Well," Bilbo manages and he can't suppress either his own grin or the tears welling up in his eyes, "Well. This is unexpected, but not in the least unwelcome."

Thorin's responding smile is perhaps the brightest Bilbo has ever seen. Laughlines now make his face seem so much younger and those feelings that once drew Bilbo to him like a moth to the flame bear up again. There is yet so much between them that needs clarification, so much time has passed - and yet Bilbo feels at home for the first time since that fateful knock on the door two years ago.

Fin


	37. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he accompanies his father on a diplomatic visit, Thorin meets Bilbo in the Shire. One thing leads to another and then to near-disaster when Thorin realizes Bilbo is not of age yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this deals with underage. Not in a terribly serious manner - think a relationship between a 17 and a 19 year old and all parties cheerfully consent - but if that's not your cup of tea, it's not. The rest of this is basically cheesy, tropey and played for laughs with a happy ending.

Thorin has just turned eighty-five when he accompanies his father on a diplomatic visit to the Blue Mountains. They stop at several places along the way; Thorin does not much enjoy being a guest in the Greenwood, though at least that is no foreign experience. Rivendell turns out to be far stranger, though Thorin thinks Lord Elrond appears to be gracious host. At least dinner does not dissolve into a vicious sniping match between the delegations.

That Erebor and Rivendell have only limited contacted may have helped to keep the atmosphere amiable as there are no difficult issues to negotiate. Which is exactly what makes their stay in the Blue Mountains a true torture session. Thrain may be crown prince of the greatest dwarven kingdom of them all, but that does not stop local dwarven nobility from attempting to undermine him each step of the way.

Clauses in contracts change overnight, addendums appears without further notice and when they finally leave Thorin can barely believe they've managed to sign anything at all. Not, that that contract is anything more than a declaration of continued goodwill and another vast number of empty promises.

So while Thorin is looking forward to returning home, he also doesn't mind the suggested detour to the Shire. Erebor and the Shire entertain no relations, and apart from a general knowledge that the other place exists Thorin barely knows anything of the Shire and its inhabitance. The distance is prohibitive for trade and much as dwarves are not interested in flowers apart from those they can eat, hobbits do not care for stones except for those that build houses.

Still, it's a change of pace before returning to the intricate gambles of Erebor's court and their entire delegation happily rents out the guest rooms at a quaint guesthouse named the Green Dragon. The surroundings are almost too picturesque – a small river runs by where some hobbits fish, a mill runs on the other side and laundry flutters next to the path leading to the inn.

While Thrain sets out to make official introductions, Thorin is at the rare liberty to wander. Soon he finds himself dismissing his guards - the entire place is peaceful to a degree that is nearly frightening. Sure, some hobbits look at them with distrust or frowns, but they'll rather shut their windows or remove steaming pies from their windowsills. Not even a pitchfork turns threateningly into his direction.

It's a strangely quaint and happy place.

Thorin soon feels utterly overdressed in his fur coat and with his heavy boots and sword strapped to his side. The hobbits around him are barefoot, wear colorful dresses and some have flowers in their hair. Conversations Thorin overhears concern crops, food, flower and children. The latter spy on him, giggling from their hiding places until they find more exciting games to play and disappear into the bright green shrubbery.

Maybe it's the weather, but to Thorin the Shire is unusually bright. Greens and golds dominate the landscape, fresh trees, blooming flowers and wide fields. Overhead, fluffy white clouds sail across a blue sky and doors in cheerful colors line the rolling hills. Red, blue and yellow flowers line the roads and the market stalls offer fresh vegetables, meats and fish. Thorin browses the stalls and eventually purchases a piece of meat pie - his stomach is growling and while the elderly lady eyes him with some skepticism, she's happy to accept his coin and count out the change.

Like the place, the people are quaint, Thorin thinks. He towers over the majority, though they are only slightly smaller than dwarves. But their entire built is different, more given to smaller bones in younger years and rotund shapes with growing age. Many sport a tan, but few calluses and Thorin sees hardly any scars. Nor missing limbs or any other type of injury so common among Erebor's warriors.

He can't recall whether the Shire has ever seen armed conflict.

And from what he observes, it probably hasn't. Thorin munches on the surprisingly delicious pie when he notices a group of young hobbits eyeing him from a distance.

They are five, all share that typical curly hair but one especially catches Thorin's eye: his hair golden in the sunlight, clothes just a bit finer than those of his friends and with a glint to his eye that even over the distance makes Thorin feel interested.

***

Thorin doesn’t quite know what happened (tomatoes were involved), but moments later he finds himself strolling away from the market in the company of one blond-haired hobbit. Bilbo Baggins, he had introduced himself smoothly while Thorin had stammered out his name in return.

"So what brings a dwarf to the Shire, Master Thorin?" Bilbo inquires with a sunny smile. His hair glints beautifully in the sunlight, as do the brass buttons of his coat. He appears to be sharply dressed by Shire standards, and Thorin has found himself hastily turning his eyes away before they lingered too long.

Thorin swallows down a knot in his throat. “Travel,” he responds blandly and wants to kick himself for his answer. His tutors would be fuming – after all their desperate works to instill some sense of diplomacy in Thorin he still barely manages a decent conversation. Right, rules, he tells himself. More information. Inquire about the other.

“We had business in the Blue Mountains,” he says, “And you?”

Which is obviously not a very intelligent question, though Bilbo responds with a cheerful chuckle. “I live here,” he replies, amusement sparkling in his eyes and Thorin feels his face flush. At least no one is here to witness his humiliation.

“But if you mean what do I do – “ Bilbo shrugs, “I fancy myself a bit of a scholar. Though recently most of my writing has been in ledgers and accounting – I own a bit of land. You are merchants, then?”

“Some of our group, yes,” Thorin answers evasively and falls silent before he can ask another foolish question. Instead he finds himself tracing the outline of Bilbo’s body underneath those colorful clothes – thin wrists, not quite as rotund as some other hobbits, not as sturdy as dwarves, but certainly not slender and willowy like the elves, either. Unremarkable, but there is something about Bilbo that draws Thorin in.

That makes sweat rise underneath his collar.

“Your arrival caused quite a stir,” Bilbo tells him, leading Thorin up the hill. Small gardens line the road, bright flowers bloom on the ground. “And I’m afraid Hobbiton may not be the most welcoming of places. We don’t see a lot of visitors, you see.”

“Neither do dwarven kingdoms,” Thorin replies, “And I believe the welcome was just fine.” Being able to ride in without either fanfare or finding oneself facing the business end of drawn weapons counts as a fine welcome in Thorin’s book.

Bilbo gives him another smile and this one has just the slightest edge to it. “I was wondering,” he begins and looks a little uncertain for once, “Whether you … well, would like to join me for dinner?”

Thorin blinks. Whether Bilbo means actual dinner or something else, the yes is already on his lips when Bilbo continues.

“You see, I recently bought a bit too much, and the food is likely to go bad. I’d hate to throw it away, and well, this seemed like a good occasion.” A light flush spreads over Bilbo’s cheeks and there’s a certain, inviting spark in his eyes.

A slow smile blooms on Thorin’s face. His mouth runs dry – dinner or more, everything in him is so utterly desirous, he can barely bring himself to agree.

“I would love to.”

At the husky note to his voice, Bilbo’s smile merely widens.

***

"I ... May be staying out late," Thorin informs his father later in the day, feeling utterly awkward. Thrain and some of their delegation sit a one of the inn’s outside tables next to the river, several jugs of beer before them. Naturally, Dwalin explodes in a coughing fit and Thrain's mouth opens and closes for a moment before he finds his words. 

"Staying out late?" Thorin’s father echoes, both eyebrows rising slowly.

Thorin nods, hating that he can feel his cheeks heat up. He knows he has never before even attempted using these diplomatic outings as a chance to further relations outside of the diplomatic sphere like some other dwarves are wont to. Of course his father is curious.

"That lad?" Dwalin suggests helpfully, still chuckling loudly, "The blond one?"

Thorin’s attempt to skewer Dwalin with a glare naturally does not work. Instead Dwalin cheerfully takes another swig of his ale and gives Thorin the thumbs up. “Thought he looked interested.”

"Is he alright, then?" Thrain inquires, still confused, "I mean safe?"

Thorin thinks of Bilbo Baggins and wonders how someone like that could ever pose a danger to anyone. Dwalin snorts. "You could snap him with bare hands. Utterly harmless."

And perhaps Thorin may not have to beat up Dwalin when no one’s looking.

"Well," Thrain exhales, "Well. Then... Well."

It's not a blessing, but Thorin knows it's the best he can get from his father. The poor man still appears rattled from his son’s sudden display of adult behavior. So Thorin leaves him to his thoughts and turns away from the Green Dragon.

***

Dinner is fantastic.

The aftermath even better.

Bilbo Baggins is a brilliant cook, looks just as good without clothes as he does with, and is also experienced, daring and adventurous. Thorin walks away from Bag End with his ears ringing, knees weak and his entire body singing in elation.

***

The following evening, he has to accompany his grandfather to an official dinner with the Thain – Gerontius Took – and his family. It's a pity, though at least Thorin knows Bilbo wouldn't have been free that evening either. Foolish as it may be, he hopes he will see the hobbit again before they depart the Shire.

But as the smell of grilled fish with delicious spices wafts towards him while his father exchanges quite amiable greetings with the Shire's Thain on the front porch of comfortable looking smile, Thorin thinks this evening may not be so bad, either. At least, an informal dinner in the Shire appears to be just that - dinner and conversation. Not riddled with the treacherous pitfalls that comparable invitations in Ered Luin carry or likely to descend into unwarranted needling as it is frequently the course in the Greenwood.

Among Thorin's diplomatic outings so far, he thinks this is likely to count among the easiest and most comfortable.

Until, of course, he finds himself staring at Bilbo seated a few seats down the long table.

They blink at each other. Thorin’s mind reels – why is Bilbo here? Is he related to the Shire’s equivalent for nobility? He’s not just a random, very handsome hobbit? – while Bilbo gives him a wry smile and nod. Of course, Thrain and the Thain catch the gesture.

“So you’ve met?” the Thain inquires, looking at Bilbo with the slightest of frowns, while cold sweat breaks out on Thorin's back. Does the Thain know? Suspect? Is he likely to be publiciy drawn and quartered for daring to indulge?

Bilbo calmly inclines his head. “Yes.” He sounds slightly bashful, but not embarrassed, while Thorin’s mind still struggles to make sense of the entire situation, and whether or not he should start begging for his life now.

His father gives Thorin a long look. Thorin grimaces. He’s been told to be on his guard all his life due to his position as third in line. Don’t bed whom you wouldn’t wed, or so the saying went. Also to have the good sense to not let relationships get into the way of diplomacy.

Also, they have next to no idea how the Shire looks onto these matters.

Thorin's heart begins to pound. He took his cue from Bilbo's rather open invitation, but what if that was wrong? What if he should have acted different, refused? What if his lack of knowledge of Shire culture has wrought terrible consequences? The Shire may look like a peaceful, quaint place, but what if they're wrong?!

“Well,” Gerontius Took sighs and turns back to his guests, “You have met my wife already – this is Bilbo Baggins.”

Perhaps it's not so bad? For a short moment Thorin sees light at the end of the tunnel.

Thrain manages a polite smile. “Your grandson, I believe?” he inclines his head toward Bilbo, “Your grandfather mentioned that you have proven yourself quite capable at managing the family estate in spite of your … age.”

The pause is minimal. And yet it’s louder than an avalanche.

Thorin’s stomach sinks. His age? What is his father saying – what –

Bilbo smiles blithely. “Thank you,” he replies, “But, you know, age and maturity are different things and in three years I would have had to take on these responsibilities anyway. Being considered not of age was, in all honest, quite helpful in some negotiations. Most …”

Bilbo trails off, smile falling.

Thrain’s face is grey. Thorin feels like fainting.

Not. Of. Age.

Sweet, cheeky, adventurous Bilbo is not of age. A minor.

And Thorin –

His mind starts screaming.

Thorin – 

Wasn’t he marveling at how soft Bilbo’s skin had been as his hands had trailed over the naked body? Peppered kisses over an unscarred back? Buried his fingers in thick curls while Bilbo had –

“Thorin?” Bilbo inquires worriedly, “Are you alright?”

Thorin’s head turns to look at Bilbo in frozen horror. Now that he knows he sees all the signs of youth, sees how Bilbo is young and innocent and Should. Never. Have. Been. Touched. That. Way. 

What he committed is among the greatest sins for his kind. No penance can ever restore what he has done. His honor will be forever forfeit, and he sees in his father’s horrified expression that he has realized the same –

Though there is one solution.

The nobles back in Erebor won’t like it. There might be a rebellion.

But it’s better than burdening himself with guilt and abandoning Bilbo to his fate. With shaking fingers Thorin reaches up to his hair and begins to remove one of his beads.

“Master Thrain,” the Thain starts somewhat disquieted, “May I ask what is wrong? I hope we have not inadvertently offended you, I am aware dwarven traditions and Shire traditions differ. But if we could – “

“Marry me,” Thorin demands and holds out his bead for Bilbo.

He swallows against the rabid pounding of his heart, fear and panic warring in his chest and Bilbo’s eyes widen, mouth opens –

And then a plate laden with grilled fish slams down on the table before Thorin. The lady of the house keeps her hold on the fish knife, towering threateningly over the dwarf.

“You,” she informs him coolly, “Will not marry my grandson.”

Of course, of course, he’s the one who despoiled him, of course Thorin has no right to ask his hand in marriage. But they have to understand, at least this way they can preserve Bilbo’s honor. Hopefully, if they think of Bilbo, they will agree – they will all have to lie that this was an arranged marriage, certainly, and people will always doubt it, but Thorin will be faithful and will do whatever it takes.

“Adamanta,” the Thain pleads, weakly.

“No,” Adamanta replies decisively, “Princeling or not, I’m not letting my grandson marry some dwarf who thinks he can just waltz in and charm him along. You know what happens to all those exotic and pretty things in faraway kingdoms.”

The Thain shrinks in his seat and for the first time Bilbo looks frazzled. “Grandma…” he protests faintly, “I …”

She turns those fiery eyes on him. “Don’t you grandma me, young man. You know well enough that your conquests have only been possible because you’ve been quite lucky in your looks. No, don’t pretend – you can be charming, but you’re not that good.”

Thorin feels tempted to protest on Bilbo’s behalf. The hobbit can be extremely charming – but he’s too afraid of the elderly white-haired hobbit lady wielding a fish knife.

“I …” Thrain begins hoarsely, “Perhaps… some settlement?”

Thorin looks at the bead still in his hand. Bilbo glances at it to and then their eyes meet, and something sparks in Thorin’s stomach. It’s terrible, horrible – even though he knows Bilbo is not of age, he still feels drawn to him. Attracted.

He deserves to burn.

The Thain sighs. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, “But perhaps try and sort out what we are actually talking about? Before we begin to talk about marriages and such?”

Thrain gives a sharp nod and slumps in his chair. Bilbo leans back, still tense. And Adamanta Took takes the chair behind Thorin without letting go of the fish knife. A cold shudder runs down his spine.

“As far as I understand, you –“ the Thain nods to Thorin, “Met with my grandson last night?”

Thorin confirms, though it’s Bilbo whom the Thain is looking at with something like reproach in his eyes. “I invited Thorin for dinner,” Bilbo confirms and Thorin wonders who on this table fails to understand the euphemism.

He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him.

Sadly, he knows the soil ground of the Shire is unlikely to collapse.

“Dinner,” Thrain echoes and glares at Thorin for having allowed a simple meal descend into something much worse. Perhaps, Thorin contemplates, losing his head here and now is actually preferable to returning to Erebor and live in shame.

The Thain sighs. Loudly.

“Ach, Bilbo,” Adamanta interrupts, “I told you to pick them a bit more carefully.”

Bilbo straightens. “I … don’t see the problem?” he offers, and then shakes his head, “No, no, apologies. I did not know you were a prince, so forgive me for ignoring related social norms. I merely judged the situation by the other dwarves I had encountered and therefore may have misjudged the situation. For that, I apologize.”

The Thain nods, and so does the matron and Thorin’s stomach sinks further.

“No,” Thrain responds weakly, “I’m afraid that is truly not the issue. The fault is entirely on our side – being not of age, my son should have never accepted young Master Baggins’ invitation. What he did is … inexcusable.”

Thorin swallows against the dread and nods.

The Thain blinks. Looks to his wife.

“So you believe you have … despoiled my grandson?” Adamanta inquires blithely, her lips twitching and Thorin thinks it must be disgust.

He closes his eyes against the horrible words, but Thorin manages to squeak out a tiny confirmations.

“Well,” she shrugs and sets aside the fish knife, “Well.”

Gerontius takes a deep breath. “It would appear the Shire approaches these types of situation with different standards, Master Thrain. The custom has been to, well, allow our tweens to, well, gather experience before settling down? We do call these wild tweens for a reason…” He trails off, glancing uncomfortably at the still steaming fish.

“That doesn’t change that my son is of age,” Thrain protests weakly.

Admanta turns her penetrating gaze on him. “Not by much. What age is he, ninety?”

“Eighty-five,” Thorin mumbles.

“Eighty-five,” Adamanta echoes, “And you come of age at eighty? Bilbo turns thirty-one this September.”

Even Thorin’s frazzled mind realizes that this … is not much of a difference. Hobbits come of age at thirty-three. Bilbo already has been handling the affair of his family. And Erebor is not unfamiliar with similar cases.

And yet. And yet.

“Then everything is alright?” Bilbo inquires suspiciously, “I don’t have to marry you to restore your honor or anything?” He looks terribly young like this.

Thorin pales.

And Bilbo backtracks hastily. “I mean, it’s not as if I’m not honored by the offer, and you’re a splendid dwarf from what I’ve seen, but we’ve just known each other for a day? Oh dear, that sounds terrible. What I’m trying to say is, I think I like you, but we …”

“A charmer you may be,” Adamanta interrupts firmly, “But you’re not doing very well right not.” Thorin thinks she may be smiling. But her eyes turn to him and he freezes. “Young Master Thorin,” she tells him, “We do recognize your desire to do the right thing, but would ask you to realize that no slight has been committed in our eyes. I understand your own traditions have a different view on these things, but would suggest you defer to ours while in the Shire.”

The Thain nods along, while Thorin dares to take the smallest of breathes.

“Now,” Adamanta concludes, “Would you mind trying the fish before it goes cold?”

And Thorin father’s hastily reaches for the cutlery. If they’ve learned anything about the Shire, than that wasting food is considered a serious offense. Likely more serious than personal relations.

***

The evening passes in a stifled nightmare that Thorin starts to suppress the moment he steps out of the door. His father’s pallor remains grey and Thorin knows he needs to prepare a very good apology at some point if he ever wants to tag along on diplomatic visits again. Though currently he isn’t quite sure he wants to.

This may have been more of an adventure than he anticipated.

“Oh dear, you still look quite frazzled,” Bilbo comments, promptly appearing next to Thorin. When he looks up, he realizes his father is almost down the way to the bridge spanning the river. Bilbo tugs on the sleeves of his burgundy dinner jacket.

“Actually,” he begins, “I had wondered if you wanted a nightcap?”

Thorin doesn't quite know what happened. One moment he was looking down at Bilbo, the next he looks up at him from where he sits in the middle of the road. Around them, yellow flowers bob merrily in the nightly breeze.

"Thorin?" Bilbo queries, waving his hand before Thorin's face, "Thorin, are you quite alright?"

Thorin blinks at him, mind slowly beginning to recover. Bilbo scratches his head, crouches down. "Perhaps I... Well, I mean that was certainly embarrassing, but... I thought we were fine?"

The gears in Thorin's mind screech. Fine is a relative word and he still expects fire to rain down from the sky and burn him for daring to even look at Bilbo in a carnal fashion. Even more for being unable to forget just how good it felt.

Bilbo looks at him. "You're making me feel bad," he complains.

Thorin twitches. "I," he stammers, "It's my fault."

"You're not making any sense," Bilbo returns and then sighs, "I thought my grandfather had explained - whatever you think you did wrong, it's not an issue here. I don't know what you dwarves think of it - and judging by the way you and your father reacted that's obviously different - but if anybody should apologize it should be me.”

Thorin’s jaw sinks.

Bilbo sits back on his haunches, evading Thorin’s eyes for a moment. “You. Well,” he shrugs and the gesture is so endearingly helpless it makes Thorin’s traitorous heart skip a beat, “From your perspective the onus of the event is on you, if I understand correctly. What with being considered of age. But in this particular situation, I believe I was the one who extended the invitation. Which implies it’s on me. Especially as you had no way of knowing.”

Thorin’s mind protests. And yet he realizes that Bilbo’s words do make sense.

“Look,” Bilbo says and rests a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, “I’m sorry for causing trouble and I’m fairly certain my grandpa will chew me out later. But by Shire standards it’s not a big deal. Though I apologize for not, well, for failing to think about what it would mean to you. So that’s my fault, too.”

He shrugs and leans back again. “I just,” he glances away, “I just don’t want you to feel guilty about it or regret it. And I hope it won’t cause any ill fortune for you.”

Oh, Thorin thinks and his heart warms. He swallows down the knot in his throat. “I, uhm. While it’s certainly punishable under dwarven law, we’re aware that outsiders don’t have the same laws , so, uh, exceptions apply?”

Bilbo purses his lips. “If it helps anything, you’re free to keep anything that happened completely secret? I could help strew some diverting rumors.”

And finally, finally, the dull throb of fear in Thorin’s chest begins to disentangle. With the soft breeze tickling his hair, the smell of pipe smoke and cut grass in the night air, the pieces settle in his mind, the raw edges dulled. Of course, dwarven laws are strict and cold. But there is a world beyond the ancient halls cut into stone, beyond the unbending traditions.

Perhaps this is what Dis found in Dale, in the books she brought back and devoured.

Perhaps this world of softer things and wider horizons is not as ill-suited to dwarves as Thorin had always believed.

“Alright?” Bilbo’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Thorin looks up to see the hobbit rise to his feet. “Are you fine with that?”

“Quite,” Thorin agrees, still reeling on the inside.

Bilbo’s lips quirk. “You look pale. But concerning that nightcap – how about we have that at the Green Dragon? I could use a good drink too, after this, and the good innkeeper always hides the good stuff behind the bar.”

Thorin’s heart flutters. When Bilbo holds out a hand, he takes it and allows the hobbit to help him up. “Sounds like a plan,” he tells Bilbo and they make their way to the Green Dragon.

***

Of course, the official chronicles do not mention the encounter quite like this. Not dramatic or romantic enough for the first meeting between the King under the Mountain and his consort. Though both are surprisingly popular with the citizens, so slighter moral failings could be forgiven.

But the chroniclers spin another tale:

Traveling through the Shire one eve, Prince Thorin caught sight and knew him to be his One. Time passed, but the memory lingered and in a triumph of true love fate brought Thorin back to the Shire years later and then returned Bilbo Baggins with him.

Since then Erebor has witnessed a steady grow of fortunes. And while distant, close ties to the Shire have carried many delicacies to the mountain. Road safety increased – now, even some hobbits travel and some dwarves have learned to appreciate wide blue skies.

“And it all begun with dinner,” Erebor’s court historian finishes the tale. The present nobility and dignitaries clap, so do the guests from the Iron Hills and the Greenwood. Thorin, with a heavy crown on his silver-streaked head, directs a small, private smile to Bilbo.

And his consort smiles back, eyes sparkling among laugh lines, still as entertained as before by their little secret: the story of King Thorin and consort Bilbo begins with a private dinner.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the cheesy stuff is done. Time to go back to either-Thorin-or-Bilbo-dies stories.


	38. The One Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin takes the ring. As Sauron regains power, Thorin is changed until Bilbo recognizes the ring for what it is and takes action. It comes at a terrible price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Character Deaths, Possession, Violence.  
> Please beware!

"What it is you have there?" Thorin exclaims, turning the corner. His black and gold fur coat sweeps the stone floor behind him like a shadow trailing the King.

Bilbo's head jerks up, and he can’t stop himself from flinching. Thorin appears a black silhouette against the dim light of the mountain corridors, foreboding and harsh. His hand fists automatically, clutching the cold ring, Thorin’s eyes narrow and a spike of fear down travels down his spine. Lately the King under the Mountain has not acted quite sane.

"Nothing special," Bilbo replies shakily. Just his magic ring, no grand trinket and certainly not the Arkenstone, yet everything within him desires to keep the trinket to himself. His fingers resist opening; a part of him does not want to share this with Thorin.

In face of Thorin’s rising paranoia, Bilbo knows himself is growing secretive and fearful. This dwarf is still Thorin, even though the gold has twisted his mind. There is no need for fear. So Bilbo forces aside his irrational reluctance and holds out the ring.

It glows softly on the palm of his hand, small and innocent. "Just a simple ring."

It does not look like anything special. There must be thousands of similar rings in Erebor's treasury. Yet Thorin's eyes light up with a possessive fever. "Did you steal it from my treasure?" he asks and his hand reaches out.

Bilbo’s heart jumps and he forces himself to calmly retract his hand. Thorin does yet listen, he tells himself, most of the time, and glances up at Thorin uneasily. The King towers over him, his frame even broader from armor and coat.

"No," Bilbo says evenly, because Thorin's accusation is ridiculous and the dwarf will realize this, "I found it in the goblin tunnels."

Thorin stills for a moment. Bilbo holds his breath, uncertain. Will reason win out? The light in Thorin’s eyes shifts and flickers, as if reflecting a tumult underneath their surface. They harden, Bilbo’s stomach sinks.

Then the storm breaks.

"Liar!" Thorin cries and grasps Bilbo by the wrist, jerking the hobbit forward. "You took it from me! It's mine! Mine!"

Bilbo slams into Thorin’s chest, the grip on his wrist hard and painful, wraps a hand around Thorin's massive gauntlets, pulling at it, because the dwarf always underestimates his own strength. His heart is in his throat and he shakes his head, cries out.

"No, Thorin, no. I didn't steal it - Thorin, listen!"

The pressure on his wrist tightens to a painful degree and Thorin is deaf to Bilbo's efforts. Pain shoots up his arm as Thorin twists his wrist; Bilbo bites down on his lip to choke back a pained scream and he recourses to hitting Thorin's shoulder with his free hand, trying to penetrate the King's fogged mind.

"Thorin, Thorin, listen to me you confusticated dwarf! Stop this! Thorin! You're hurting me!" His voice hitches with desperation and the King turns glazed eyes to Bilbo.

"Give it to me," he demands, and before Bilbo can even recognize the shine of wildness, Thorin's other hand takes his hair and spins him around.

Bilbo slams into the marble wall, all air leaving his lungs, ears ringing. His chest is pressed against the unforgiving stone hard, lungs struggling to expand and a dull throb runs down his spine. While he tries to blink away the spots flickering in his vision, his wrist is pulled up behind his back. Panic surges through his veins and Bilbo unclenches his fist. The ring drops to the ground with a dull thud.

And Thorin's hands leave his body.

Bilbo turns, coughs and slumps against the wall. His entire body throbs, his knees shake. Warily he massages his abused wrist, heart pounding in his chest and watches Thorin ignore him completely.

The King has bent down to pick up the ring. He straightens, lifts it high, his eyes transfixed.

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine. Is this Goldsickness, too, Thorin’s utter enchantment with this small a ring?

"Thorin," Bilbo calls, already giving up the hope of being able to get through to Thorin, "Thorin, this ring - it's nothing special. Really, just a trinket." A trinket he’d like to have back, though in as his wrist begins to turn blue and black, he knows he’ll hold his tongue.

Shining blue eyes turn on Bilbo and Thorin says as if the violent interaction had never occurred: "And yet it is beautiful. I shall treasure it as a beloved present, nay, it shall have a place of honor in my kingdom and all generations to come shall look upon it with the utmost respect."

***

Lost in the spell of gold and the madness of the coming days, Bilbo almost forgets about the ring. First there is his desperate wager, then the terrible battle. And for a moment that feels like a lifetime he believes they all will die.

But he wakes to find himself on Ravenhill. Clothes tattered, his arms and leg cut and scarred and a still sluggishly bleeding wound on his head, Bilbo stumbles down into camp.

If there was ever a moment of glorious triumph, of soaring victory, he must have missed it.

The camp is confusion, grief, the stink of death and dirt. Tension still suffuses the air, the dead and dying and ferried in and out of tents and between the survivors walk with grim faces. Gandalf greets Bilbo with a relieved smile, and soon, so do the other dwarves.

Bilbo’s initial surprise is waved aside – he’s welcome still, and – as Dain explains – Thorin’s judgement was revoked the moment the King under the Mountain awoke.

***

So the weeks pass. Thranduil and his own return to Mirkwood, the men settle in Dale. Dain leaves for the Iron Hills and snow comes down from the north. An errand calls Gandalf south and he departs Erebor with the promise to return for Bilbo as soon as possible. But they must wait for the snows to thaw first.

Winter comes and settles. The princes recover – Kili regains his wide grin soon enough, though Fili retains a limp. Thorin, most grievously wounded of them all, has grown quiet and turned conscientiously to his duties. Where Bilbo can, he helps.

It is during one of these afternoons bowed over old ledgers that the ring comes up.

Thorin is utterly ashamed when he is reminded of his behavior. “I cannot apologize enough. My memories of that period are blurry, and all I recall is needing to possess that ring.”

He shakes his head, looking at his own boots, mouth drawn into a grim, regretful line. “My actions then – I barely recall what I did after. I just left you there, did I?”

Bilbo swallows. Time has lessened the horrors, soothed the hurts and he fights down the memories struggling to resurface.

Thorin’s mouth hardens, but it’s directed at himself. “I –“ he cuts himself off and turns back to Bilbo, studying the hobbit intensely, “How badly did I hurt you?”

Bilbo shifts under the close scrutiny, all too aware of his still too-pale pallor and the faint scars left on his body. Thick winter clothes hide most of it, and his face was thankfully been spared – unlike Oin who lost the tip of his nose – but this new body with its calluses, muscles, and harder edges sometimes feels unfamiliar.

“Not at all, Thorin,” Bilbo tells him and turns his attention back to the numbers scrawled across the page before him. Age and a dragon have rendered them nearly illegible, “I was surprised, most of all. I merely hadn’t expected your reaction.” The bruises have long since faded. What memory of pain there was merged with his general recollections of fear, discomfort and unease that suffuse that time – and he does not like to revisit these.

Thorin sighs, shoulders slumping. “You shouldn’t have had to,” he murmurs and sounds so defeated that Bilbo is desperate to find another topic.

“So what did you do with the ring, anyway?” he inquires, because a part of him has always wondered, “Put it back with the rest of the treasure?” He’d like to have kept it for luck – after all it did save his life several times. But if it’s buried somewhere in the treasury, it can stay there. Perhaps counteract the cursed gold a bit.

Thorin purses his lips. “I put it in my father’s chambers, I think,” Thorin replies slowly, “It should still be there.”

Bilbo nods, fingers already itching to retrieve it.

Thorin seems to read his mind. “Bilbo, would you …” he grimaces, “Would you mind leaving it there? Just, well.” He shrugs, a gesture endearingly helpless. “I know you needed it to help us and it probably saved us all. But I would like to think that now, in times of peace, it will not be needed anymore.”

Bilbo’s heart warms and he finds himself nodding along. While he knows where the ring is, he can always retrieve it should it become necessary.

Thorin’s expression softens, too. “Also, it would greatly calm my conscience to know you are not using the ring to face dangers. I would rather you leave the dangers to those qualified to deal with them – and know you safe.”

“Believe me,” Bilbo replies with a small chuckle, “I have every intention of leaving future dangers to those qualified to handle them.”

Because even after orcs, spiders and a dragon he’s still only a small hobbit.

***

Even in more peaceful times, danger does exist. The winter is not over yet when the first conspiracy causes a smaller diplomatic crisis. However, before the combined wit of Balin and Nori the opponents do not fare very well, though Thorin does end up resting a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder in the aftermath.

“I’m afraid there may be more,” he tells Bilbo, referring to the xenophobic insults the conspirators spewed, “Dwarves … do not deal well with the rest of the world.”

Bilbo shrugs. “Neither do hobbits,” he replies, “And the rest of the world doesn’t deal very well with each of us. I think I will live.”

Dwarven insults may be meaner, harsher. But to most Bilbo is a hero and Erebor’s small and growing population likes its heroes better than the returning nobility with their outrageous claims.

The second type of danger is even less likely to touch Bilbo.

“Another raiding party has been sighted,” the messenger informs the gathered crowd. Dwalin makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“When will they reach Dale?”

The messenger inclines his head. “Should they remain on track, tomorrow at nightfall. King Bard is readying his archers and the city’s defenses.”

“Very well,” Dwalin resolves, “I want a response team. Archers, riders and guards.” He looks calm, and by now Bilbo has overheard enough of these conversations to know this danger happens infrequently. And his reading of Dwalin’s body language always gives him a good idea of how serious the threat is.

After the battle of the Five Armies, few orcs remain in the area. Most flee, but some have formed small groups, scavenging and plundering. If the men of Dale or Erebor’s outposts catch sight of them, they hunt down the packs.

“Bad for trade,” Gloin explains Bilbo one evening, “Those orcs. Makes the road unsafe. And if merchants like one thing, it’s safe passage. That’s why the Lake’s so important. Though folks still think it’s cursed, what with the dragon now dead on its ground.”

To Bilbo, the Long Lake still glitters enticingly under the slowly warming sun. Most days, however, spring in Erebor is a moist and foggy affair that makes Bilbo miss the Shire’s sunnier weather.

***

Of course he catches a cold.

Bilbo sniffles in protest as Fili drops yet another blanket on him and Oin frowns grimly. He’d protest the treatment if his voice was more than a hoarse scratch that caused coughing fits.

“His temperature seems to rise again,” Thorin tells Oin from his seat next to Bilbo’s bed. Nobody has yet commented on the fact that Thorin holds Bilbo’s hand. “Maybe we should get more ice?”

Oin hums, takes a long look at Bilbo’s flushed face, and then shakes his head. “Not yet. It’s bound to rise in the evening anyway, so I’d wait with the ice until then. May have an adverse effect on his constitution.”

He’s not fragile, Bilbo wants to exclaim, it’s just a cold. And he’s sorry for more or less passing out the first time Oin introduced him to the marvels of an ice bath – good for his fever, certainly, but Bilbo’s mind had simply short-circuited out of the situation. Frightened his dwarves somewhat terrible, though at least now they know better than to just dump ice on him.

Thorin nods and the pressure on Bilbo’s hand increases. “I shall keep an eye on him in any case.”

Oin grimaces at first, but then shrugs. “Just make sure no counselors come to bother you. Our hobbit needs to rest.”

***

And Thorin makes certain Bilbo gets it.

He’s there almost all the time during Bilbo’s recovery. Deep away from the surface, in a chamber built especially to provide rest and relaxation, Bilbo soon loses track of the passage of time. The hours drift by while Thorin sits next to him, reading document after document.

From time to time he will shift. Walk a step or two. Take Bilbo’s wrist and feel for his pulse. Run a hand through Bilbo’s hair.

“Do not worry,” he tells Bilbo, whenever the hobbit is awake, “You are safe. All is well. Rest.”

Feeling safer than he has since childhood, Bilbo closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

***

It takes almost ten days until Oin allows Bilbo up. Around him the dwarves seem to walk on eggshells, abruptly treating him as if fragile. Bilbo feels nearly affronted – he walked with them through Mirkwood, they faced spiders and angry elves and angrier fishermen. But then Ori takes him aside and whispers that now with Erebor reclaimed the greatest stain on their honor would be anyone coming to harm in this supposedly safe place. Bilbo’s cold already came close to shaming them – naturally, they will not allow him any further risks.

With a heavy sigh, Bilbo accepts the coddling. Takes the second helping Bombur offers, accepts the warmer vests Dori has sewn. A nagging sense of guilt remains – there is so much to be done in Erebor and yet they are wasting time on him.

Winter turns into spring. Gandalf does not return to Erebor, but the first caravans arrive. With them, reports of renewed goblin activity in the Misty Mountains.

“I don’t like it,” Thorin tells Bilbo, studying the map spread across the table before them, “It’s too dangerous.”

Bilbo frowns. “Coming here was dangerous.”

“Yes, but we were thirteen,” Thorin replies immediately, “And you are well-known now. Robbers may prey on you or others…”

He shakes his head and turns to Bilbo, a wistful smile on his face. “I believe others may have already figured that the kingdom of Erebor would pay whatever price they might ask for you.”

Bilbo chuckles, and folds up the map. “I could wear my ring for the entire trip, you know. They will have a hard time tracking down somebody invisible.” He is not discontent to stay – by now it feels as if his mind has begun to take up root in the kingdom. What once looked gloomy and foreign grows a little brighter and dearer each day and already Bilbo knows he will miss Erebor fiercely the day he departs.

Thorin exhales. “Indeed. But there are so many other things that could happen – you remember how treacherous the mountain passes were. What if you should fall?”

Worry lights his eyes so Bilbo leans over and pats his arm reassuringly. “I think I’ve gotten used to mountains. But with the situation as it is, I believe I can wait another year.”

“Thank you,” Thorin whispers and leans forward to capture Bilbo’s lips, “Thank you.”

If he asked, Bilbo thinks then, he would stay forever.

***

Balin helps him with sending out ravens. One to the Shire, one to Rivendell and one to Bree.

The year passes in the blink of an eye and the first cooler days bring the expected replies. Bilbo finds his instructions have been followed – and the Sackville’s attempt at claiming Bag End has been foiled. He spends more time in the mountain now, thoroughly embroiled in its politics and intrigues.

Time flashes by in a string of meetings and celebrations, excursions to Dale and sailing down the Lake. Delegations and caravans arrive, from the Iron Hills, from the South. The wares offered on the market grow more exotic, exquisite.

Foreigners come to Dale and Erebor, carrying spices, handicrafts and tales. Bilbo helps Ori edit one collection, then another. And then Balin decides the time is right to reclaim Moria. With Oin and an army of strong dwarves he sets out.

For a moment Bilbo contemplates joining. The home he left behind so long ago on the other side of the mountains beckons.

Yet too much time has passed. The hobbits, he thinks, will not recognize him in his dwarvish fashions. And he would go back only to find the place he remembers does not longer exist for he himself has changed too much to find it again.

No, let Bag End be a happy memory.

The mountain prospers and the years pass. Bilbo is crowned prince consort. Fili and Kili make a game of calling him uncle, while Bilbo reluctantly grows accustomed to foreign dignitaries bowing before him.

***

Until, once more, reports of unrest grow frequent. Orcs come from the north as they always have, but their numbers appear to grow. Patrols encounter them more frequently, and closer to Erebor. But perhaps, it is merely Bilbo’s impression.

And yet.

Something stirs.

Not only the north – which has ever since been home to orcs and dragons and darker legends – is stirring. Pirates sail up from the south, orcs and bandits march across Gondorian lands. The wind on Bilbo’s face feels colder, harsher than it has in years as he gazes onto the plains before Erebor, yet bare as the snows have barely melted.

The world seems to be changing, once again, he thinks. Overhead, clouds race past, buffeted by strong winds. Beneath the lake changes colors, dotted by many smaller and larger ships sailing in and out of Laketown. Smoke rises above the rooftops of Dale, once again splendid – the desolate ruin of a city has faded into memory years ago.

And yet Bilbo thinks he can smell ash on the air.

***

Not even a moon has passed when an ill message arrives. The fortress of Barad-Dur has been rebuilt. Fell things watch the gates of Mordor. The dark Lord has returned.

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. He crumples the message in his hand and turns to the messenger, a man from Gondor.

“Erebor thanks you,” he tells him with a sense of calm he doesn’t feel, “And we offer you aid as our capacities allow. For now, please follow Master Nari, he will provide you with refreshments.”

Bilbo gives a short nod to one of the attending dwarves in their consultation chamber, before he turns on his heel and strides out. Thorin needs to know this; Thorin should have heard the message first. But everyone has gotten so used to having Bilbo handle all foreign correspondence and messages they skipped their King.

Though Thorin has not appeared much in public recently. This morning, too, the King had begged off due to feeling unwell and Bilbo had climbed out of bed alone.

Bilbo’s hands shake as he hurries up the corridors, trying to keep the anxiety off his face. Dwalin needs to know; they may need to patrol the area even more frequently. Perhaps a joint guard with Laketown and Dale? A watch on the road to Mirkwood, too. If they could reach Gandalf – he must have heard the news, too. Bilbo wonders what the wizard must make of it.

Then he opens the door to his and Thorin’s chambers and finds Thorin seated in an armchair. His attention fixed on a small golden band in his hand.

And an abrupt, terrible thought rises in Bilbo.

***

He manages to ignore the notion for a while. Thorin drops the ring the moment Bilbo tells him the news. Together they puzzle over old scrolls and cryptic missives. Fear begins to spread.

“They’re preying on travelers,” Dwalin informs them when he returns from patrol a few days later, “They try to stay away from settlements for the time being.”

Stay away where their numbers can grow unchallenged. Bilbo swallows down the dread rising in his throat and asks Dwalin if they can try to smoke out the orcs from their hiding places. It will be a greater operation – one that would potentially leave Erebor open – but in cooperation with Dale, Laketown and Mirkwood, Dwalin believes it can be done.

“Then see to it,” Bilbo instructs Dwalin, hoping he is not overstepping.

“I will,” Dwalin agrees with a short nod of the head and strides away. Uneasy shifts in Bilbo’s stomach – Thorin has delegated so many tasks lately, it is unsurprising many in Erebor now look to the princes and him for guidance. But he is not King under the Mountain and Bilbo wonders what Thorin will make of his decision.

“A good call, beloved,” Thorin whispers and slides a hand through Bilbo’s hair – still blond in spite of his years, though the grey in it is getting more prominent. He sighs, leans back behind his desk and tugs Bilbo to sit on his lap. They both groan as their aged bones take a bit of shifting to be comfortable in that situation.

“A very good call. I do hope these old bones are up to the challenge,” he continues, and then adds with a wistful smile, “I can scarcely believe I used to spend decades without a decent bed.”

Bilbo huffs, but Thorin’s decision wipes away all levity. “You will join them?”

Thorin inclines his head. “It would not do for a King to hide behind his soldiers.”

Be that as it may, Bilbo wants to protest, it’s too dangerous. Let them go, they are young and trained. Thorin is not old for a dwarf, certainly, but when he carries a sword these days it’s ceremonial only. He barely has time to spar and they always finish early.

“Then I will come too,” Bilbo decides.

Thorin pales. “No,” he protests immediately, “No. I need you to rule the mountain – Erebor would fall into chaos if you left.”

“Erebor can spare me for a few days,” Bilbo replies, “Your mountain is more stable than that.” Indeed, Erebor by now has grown so far it may be able to function long years without need for a King.

Thorin reaches for Bilbo’s hand, enfolding it between his own. “It would not be safe,” he mumbles and lifts Bilbo’s hand to his mouth, presses a reverent kiss on its back.

The lack of safety is precisely why Bilbo does not want Thorin to go either. “Leave it to Dwalin,” Bilbo says instead, “He knows what he is doing. You know how everyone insists on being ridiculously formal whenever you show up – this mission may go easier if you sit it out.”

***

It takes more needling. Appealing to Fili’s need to prove himself a worthy successor. Mentioning Kili’s diplomatic skills. Invoking Thorin’s own fatigue is what eventually makes Thorin agree to stay behind. Dark shadows line his eyes and Bilbo grows uneasy.

He knows Thorin was up during the night, fondling that small golden ring.

A shiver runs down Bilbo’s spine and he once again wonders. Is it truly just the aftermath of so many terrifying decades catching up with Thorin? Should he intervene?

But the moment he attempts, Thorin snaps.

It’s utterly unexpected. Bilbo has not seen Thorin’s features twisted from hatred and rage in years, not even that fateful day on the ramparts did the King look so deranged. Beyond words, he reaches for Bilbo, eyes aflame.

Bilbo flinches, retreats, stumbles and his back hits the wall before his mind has even caught up with the fact that this is Thorin, Thorin who promised to never harm him again. Cold sweat lines his hands as he clutches the ring to his chest.

“Thorin! Thorin!” he shouts, but the King gives no sign of hearing him, eyes fixed on the hand that holds the ring.

“Thorin!”

“Give it to me!” Thorin demands, towering over Bilbo, “It’s mine! Return it!”

Ice runs down Bilbo’s spine. A large hand reaches for his – but before Thorin can take hold of his wrist, Bilbo throws the ring at Thorin’s face.

“Take it,” he gasps, angry and afraid and desperate, “Take it and leave me alone!”

His voice breaks and he turns away before Thorin can react. The ring hits the ground with a dull thud, but Bilbo is already running out of the room. Hot tears run down his face – what has happened to his dwarf, why is he like this? What evil witchcraft has changed him so?

It cannot be the ring, small as it is. A weird magical item, indeed, but to evoke such a change. No, Bilbo tells himself, no, something else is at work here. Something that has been eating away the dwarf he loved bit by bit until something twisted, unrecognizable remained.

***

He hides himself in an empty chamber, locking the door from the inside. It hurts too much – and it was supposed to be merely a test to gauge Thorin’s reaction. But now in face of what he has seen, Bilbo fears the process has gone too far, that it is irreversible.

That he is losing his beloved all over again.

And his heart cannot bear this pain.

When he emerges, eyes red-rimmed and voice hoarse, a runner catches him before Bilbo can return to Thorin’s and his chambers. Dwalin and Fili returned, the runner informs Bilbo, they are all well and were successful. But Dwalin asked to speak to either Thorin or him.

So with a heavy sigh and a heavier heart Bilbo changes directions. The warm breeze of a summer evening greets him and for a moment he imagines just sitting outside and enjoying the sun. Then the noisy hustle of a returned patrol draws him from the pleasurable daydream.

The young princes greet him with wide grins. Fili’s falls the moment he catches sight of Bilbo’s face, but before he can inquire, Kili launches in a grand tale of their adventures and Bilbo allows himself to be taken along. He nods and laughs and commends the heroic feats, mentioning that a promotion for one or the other member of the guard should certainly be considered.

It all feels terribly, terribly wrong. Like an act – a façade that will falter the moment the ground moves.

“Bilbo,” Dwalin inclines his head.

Bilbo smiles at him while Kili and Fili disappear into the mountain. “It went well?” he inquires, even while the world around them seems to darken.

Dwalin nods. “Found three hiding spots. Killed them all.”

He sounds satisfied, yet Bilbo’s heart sinks. Three hiding spots – and those are only the ones they found. Who knows how many more there are beyond their reach? The world is truly growing a frightful place.

“Good work,” Bilbo says and keeps his eyes fixed on the reunited families before him. The laughter sounds shallow to his ears, and he wonders just how long they can sustain this fiction of safety. How long until they must acknowledge the horror dawning on the horizon?

“We found messages with the orcs,” Dwalin informs Bilbo, lowering his voice and leaning forward. Bilbo tenses. “What did they say?”

“Couldn’t read it, it was in black speech,” Dwalin answers, “But the elves could. Said the orcs were looking for something or someone. Didn’t make much sense, though, what they came up with.”

Ice crawls down Bilbo’s spine. “What were they looking for?”

“If they got their translation correct,” Dwalin replies with a huff, “It’s something called _Gollum_.”

And the world shatters.

***

Bilbo does not know how he makes it back. How he does not shatter on the spot.

But when his mind clears he knows that he cannot wait any longer. He must do something. Perhaps it is a foolish notion, the way it was back when he tried to trade the Arkenstone for peace. Perhaps this too, will come to nothing.

Trading the Arkenstone almost cost his life.

Taking on the one ring, then, will likely claim it.

***

“Ori,” Bilbo asks, casting a careful glance around, “I need your help.”

Ori looks up from his writing desk, surprise written over his features. “Of course, Bilbo, of –“ He trails off as he spies the grimace on Bilbo’s face.

“What is it?” he asks more solemnly.

Bilbo sighs. He can still make something up, inquire after another topic. His wild hunch is probably utterly wrong and he’s just wasting Ori’s precious time.

But –

“If you could just point me into the right direction that would be enough,” Bilbo forces himself to say. The less he involves Ori in this, the better. No time wasted, no unnecessary panic created.

“Certainly,” Ori replies easily, “But what are you looking for?”

Bilbo swallows down the knot in his throat. “A record. Of the one ring. What it looks like. How to – how to recognize it.”

“Bilbo?!” Ori gasps and Bilbo finds he cannot look at the young dwarf. Ori must know what he’s asking; Ori has always been able to read between the lines. Of course he will figure it out.

But Ori is also far better at controlling himself than anybody else in this mountain. Within moments he has overcome his surprise and shock, and instead nods thoughtfully. “There are several accounts, I guess. The dwarven accounts do mention it, but they are not very descriptive. At least one Sindarin manuscript I know of mentions it extensively, but I would suggest you start with the record of Isildur. It’s in common and has been frequently copied, so allow for minor alterations, but the version we have here should be relatively accurate.”

Ori rises to his feet when Bilbo glances up, a contemplative frown on his face as he guides Bilbo through Erebor’s library. The hobbit glances left and right, marveling at the changes that have taken place – he rarely gets to visit the library anymore. In his memory it’s still the gloomy, musty place where books had fallen from the shelves and dust covered everything with a thick layer. Now there are lights at every shelf, newly installed ladders and a filing system in place.

And Ori navigates the place with the ease of years of familiarity. “Over there are the dwarven accounts of the rings,” he tells Bilbo, though he keeps his voice quiet, “If those should be of interest.”

Bilbo nods, heart sinking again. They’ve come so far, but if his worst fear should be confirmed –

“This is it,” Ori announces and fishes out a leather-bound tome from a lower shelf, “The record of Isildur.”

When Bilbo accepts it, the book seems to weight a ton.

Ori gives him a sharp look across the cover. “Ask me if anything comes up,” he tells Bilbo and then leans forward. The lightening reveals the changes – Ori is no longer the shy, timid dwarf Bilbo met on the quest. This Ori is Erebor’s head historian, the one responsible for the kingdom’s official narrative with all its grander implications.

“Anything, Bilbo, anything,” he emphasizes, “I mean it. No second Arkenstone debacle, please. Do not do this on your own.”

Bilbo clutches the book against his chest. Suddenly breathless, he can only nod.

***

Fire, the book tells him, does reveal the secret.

Fire the secret reveals.

***

Bilbo stares morosely at nothing. The fire in the fireplace flickers merrily, the ring has been returned to its drawer. All the luxuries around him, all those symbols of their success, of how far they have come – he can already feel them all slipping from between his fingers. The hard-won peace fading away, all his happiness dispersing like sand.

A bleakness as he had not known it since those terrible days in Mirkwood, since the horrors of watching Thorin in the thrall of gold settles over him again. And with it rises the certainty that he must act. That he must, once again, make a decision.

A decision he has willfully ignored for far too long.

With a small sigh Bilbo closes his eyes. He has seen Thorin change. Bit by bit the King grew more reclusive, more bewitched with his treasure. He’s seen Thorin handle the ring, daily at least, and Bilbo wonders why he did not realize earlier that something was wrong. He’d carried the cursed thing himself, after all. Had felt the strange pull in his bones.

And cast it off as a magic gadget.

He shakes his head with a huff. His ignorance was willful and foolish – but no longer. Bilbo bites down on his lip. The ring cannot stay in Erebor. Cannot be allowed to poison Thorin’s mind any longer – not if Sauron is extending his reach.

Perhaps there is no safe place left for the ring in the entirety of Middle Earth. Perhaps its needs to be destroyed.

Bilbo swallows, then closes his eyes and sighs. He will arrange for it. Make his move, and then face the consequences. It is the price he has to pay for his ignorance.

***

“Fili, Kili, Ori, Dwalin,” Bilbo greets the four dwarves. Already his conscience bends under the weight of guilt. Though Ori, at least, looks as if he had guessed the purpose of this meeting.

“What I am about to say cannot leave this room,” Bilbo tells them, pushing back the voices telling him to not say anything, take the ring and go. “Do not tell anyone. Our lives and possibly everyone’s are dependent on it.”

“What is going on, Bilbo?” Fili inquires uneasily. Kili shifts his weight and Dwalin crosses his arms before his chest. All four watch Bilbo closely and cold sweat breaks out on the hobbit’s back.

“It’s…” Bilbo sighs, “It’s a long story, and I …” He breaks off with a shake of his head.

Ori purses his lips. “You found out something.”

Fili jumps, but Bilbo hangs his head and nods.

“What?” Dwalin inquires gruffly.

“And why this secrecy?” Kili adds, “Where is uncle?”

Bilbo’s heart breaks. “He cannot know,” he offers morosely, “Thorin- I fear if he knew - . It would not turn out well.”

Ori glares at him unhappily, but Bilbo squares his shoulders. “I do not know if you ever noticed, but during the quest I picked up a small golden ring. Quaint little trinket that could turn me invisible.” Bitterness colors his voice. If only he’d never found the cursed trinket.

“It turns out,” Bilbo informs them with a grim, humorless smile, “That little trinket is the one ring.”

Absolute silence descends. Then Fili blinks. A faint “what?” echoes from Kili’s side, and Dwalin eventually groans. “The one ring? Seriously?”

“I checked,” he confirms, “It’s the one ring.”

Ori – who may have suspected all along- nods. “So what are you planning to do about it?”

“Do?” Dwalin echoes, “What should he do? It’s crawling with orcs out there and you wouldn’t really want to take the one ring out? It’s safer in the mountain than without.”

“Not in the long run, no, as –“ Ori begins, but Bilbo speaks up at the same time. “It’s poisoning the mountain,” he tells Dwalin, “Thorin is already – you must have realizes he has been changing.”

“That’s what’s behind it?” Kili exclaims, “That’s what’s been making uncle weird?” He sounds almost relieved and in a way it must be good to know that it’s not Thorin’s own fault he has grown so distant. So obsessed.

Bilbo nods. “He took the ring back when Erebor was under siege. I never suspected a thing.”

If he had, this disaster might have been avoided. He would not be losing Thorin a second time.

Fili twirls his mustache thoughtfully. “Then the ring must go, I see. Where do you think we should take it?”

Bilbo sighs. “Rivendell may be best, I believe. Lord Elrond was there when Isildur took it, he may have an idea of how to handle it now.”

“Then we will take it there,” Ori offers quietly, surprising everybody. Kili’s head whips around to stare at his friend and Fili’s brow furrows.

“Ori?” Dwalin inquires in obvious confusion.

Ori shrugs. “Bilbo obviously cannot go. So we will do it.”

“Why can’t he go?” Kili asks.

“Because,” Ori says and turns his body to glare at Bilbo, “Our hobbit would have never deigned to inform us of his mad schemes if he could pull them of on his own. If it were possible, we would not be talking to Bilbo but reading a note.”

Bilbo flinches. It’s true, if there had been a choice, he would have taken the ring himself.

Kili gapes at him, while Fili collects himself. “That’s … idiotic!” he exclaims, “Bilbo, of course we’ll take the ring to Rivendell, but what on earth – why would you – why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“I only confirmed it two days ago,” Bilbo admits quietly.

“But you suspected it for a while,” Ori accuses.

Bilbo bows his head.

“You should have told us the moment you so much as suspected!” Kili cries and steps forward to grasp Bilbo by the shoulders, forcing him to look up, “Why didn’t you tell us?” Kili gives him a gentle shake and the shine in his eyes makes Bilbo’s heart clench. Before he knows what is happening Kili has drawn him into a close hug. “Why didn’t you tell us? All this time you’ve looked so drained and worried and we didn’t have a clue. We’re your friends – you can share these things with us.”

Bilbo pats his back, feeling his own hands tremble. Oh how he had wanted to share the burden. But he brought the ring here – it’s his responsibility.

Fili steps closer, watching Bilbo from behind his brother’s back. “Just how heavily is it affecting uncle, Bilbo? Is it like the Arkenstone?”

Bilbo stiffens. Kili’s arms tighten around him and even though they are all still here, Bilbo already misses them, their warmth and affection. “Not quite as bad,” he tells Fili.

Yet, he adds in his mind. And only as long as Thorin does not know Bilbo has taken the ring.

Once he finds out –

Bilbo shudders.

“He will be angry when he finds out,” Ori concludes quietly, “Terribly angry. The same as when he found out about the Arkenstone. Won’t he, Bilbo?”

And Bilbo cannot lie. He half-collapses into Kili’s chest and gives the smallest of nods.

“Damnit, Bilbo!” Fili shouts abruptly, “Couldn’t you –“

“There was no other option,” Ori interrupts Fili sharply, “Do you think your uncle would have given up the ring on his own? You know the stories.”

Fili takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Apologies Bilbo,” he murmurs, while Kili pets Bilbo’s hair. Small tremors run through Bilbo’s body, and his head spins when he detaches himself from the comfortable embrace.

“There is no other way,” he confirms, “Not at this point. You need to take the ring to Rivendell.”

“We will do that, Bilbo,” Fili agrees solemnly, “But should you be staying here? If uncle is likely to grow angry –“

Bilbo shakes his head. “Anywhere else is not safe.”

“You could come with us,” Kili suggests.

Bilbo grimaces. “I – can’t,” he admits, “It’s not safe.”

Ori inclines his head. “For you or for us?”

Bilbo flinches. “You,” he says and then knows he owes them the last piece of the puzzle, much as he would have liked to keep it a secret and not burden them with it. But they must know.

“It is likely they will soon figure out I had the ring. Once they start looking for me, anybody around me will not be safe,” Bilbo tells them.

“How would they find out?” Fili asks, “The ring was lost!”

“Gollum,” Dwalin interrupts quietly, “You went stark white when I brought it up. That’s the missing connection, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?” Kili asks, while Bilbo sighs. “Yes. Gollum – it’s a creature that lived deep in the Misty Mountains. The previous owner of the ring – he lost it and I took it, and he learned my name.”

Kili’s eyes widen. “Then they’ll come after you!” he shouts.

“Quite probably,” Bilbo confirms. He plans to be far from Erebor at that time. Perhaps heading somewhere west. They’ll surely track him down, but he may lead them on a merry chase before they do so.

Fili turns to Dwalin. “Dwalin,” he states and his voice abruptly sounds firm, “You make sure nothing happens to Bilbo.”

“Aye,” Dwalin agrees and Bilbo realizes that this had just become an order.

Ori smiles grimly. “Alright. Dwalin will take care of Bilbo – and we will take care of the ring?”

Both Fili and Kili nod. All three look pale, but determined and Bilbo wishes he could undo this. Wishes he could turn back time to a more peaceful period.

But the dice has been rolled.

***

A cold, easterly wind blows over the rampart and Bilbo shivers. The sky is overcast and the air smells of snow. It feels like another morning, so long ago, that he had hoped to never recall. But these are ill times, and he sees his feelings of dread and uncertainty mirrored in the still too-young faces of Kili, Fili and Ori.

They should not have these worry lines etched onto their features. Should not have seen so much death and desolation already. He would not burden them with more – he would take the ring himself and carry it to Mordor, if only to spare them.

But his body is no longer young and he has a duty to Erebor, too. To her people, and to Thorin, and he will not ignore it.

“Bilbo…” Kili mumbles, eyeing him from head to toe, “You look terrible.”

Kili himself looks a shade darker than ash, Bilbo thinks, but shakes his head. Instead he fumbles for the chain in his pocket, and the ring is terribly heavy when he pulls it out.

“Are you prepared?” Bilbo inquires quietly of the three solemn dwarves before him.

They nod. All carry oil coats and leathers, swords and provisions. Hopefully that will be enough. “We’ll be fine, Bilbo,” Fili assures him, “Do not worry.”

Bilbo’s lips twitch. “How can I not?” he inquires and holds out the ring toward Fili. How can he not worry when he gives to Fili the most frightening thing in existence? The thing should have never been found – perhaps it would have been best had Bilbo never awoken in those cursed goblin caves.

“Ach, Bilbo,” Ori protests and pats his shoulder, “We’re dwarves. You know we’ll be fine.”

Fili accepts the ring and immediately slips it into the inside pocket of his leathers. He nods. “We will, Bilbo. Don’t worry. I’m rather – Thorin will not like this.”

Kili’s eyes widen. “He really won’t,” he nods emphatically, and the gesture makes him look so young that Bilbo hates himself for burdening the three once more, “What will you tell him?”

Bilbo shrugs. “Nothing, I guess,” he tells them. But that is only part of the truth – Bilbo will keep his silence as long as Thorin does not ask.

But Thorin will ask. For the King has barely been able to leave his chambers without the ring lately.

Fili frowns and reaches out to take Bilbo by the shoulders. “Do not do anything foolish, Bilbo. You know how uncle gets – promise me, you’ll take care. Please, Bilbo.”

“Of course,” Bilbo mutters and draws Fili into a hug. Kili joins, and Fili tugs Ori in, and Bilbo basks in the warmth on this dreary morning. Soon they will be gone, he knows. Soon this will be a thing of the past – and he does not know if he can ever have this again.

A hand musses up his hair. “Take care Bilbo,” Kili says as he disentangles himself, “Make sure to get rest. Don’t catch a cold. Eat enough.”

Ori chuckles. “Dress warm enough. Don’t read in dim light.”

Bilbo nods, feeling his own lips twitch and his eyes burn. Then Fili leans forward, resting his own forehead against Bilbo.

“Really, Bilbo,” he implores, “Stay safe.”

His voice grows hoarse. “Only if you promise to do the same,” he whispers, “Come back safely. That is all I ask.”

He feels Fili nod and then they part. Ori turns to gaze at the road ahead, shrugs and smiles. “We’ll be off, then. It’s some distance to travel.”

Fili nods, and Bilbo watches as the three turn to climb down the staircase. He watches as they descend, his heart in his throat. Run after them, a part of his heart commands, run after them and at least help them along on this terrible journey.

“I want some strawberry pies when I get back!” Kili shouts up from below.

A darker part whispers to remember them. Remember their faces, remember these shrinking backs – you will not see them again, you have sent them to their death. Why risk so much, why not call them back? Call them and hide the ring – it will be safe in Erebor.

But Bilbo firmly presses his lips together and ignores the burning trails trickling down his cheeks. He will not call them back.

He will trust them.

And face his own fate.

***

“Where is it?” Thorin hisses the moment Bilbo returns to their chambers. It is still early in the morning and Bilbo knows Thorin only slept late last night. Dark shadows underneath the King’s eyes confirm this, but they do nothing to sooth the mad gleam.

“Where is it?” Thorin repeats and advances.

Bilbo steps back, raises his hands. His back hits the wall, fear rushes through his veins.

“Thorin, what do you mean?” he asks, and his breath hitches.

Thorin’s hand slams against the wall next to Bilbo’s head. He towers over Bilbo, his greater size abruptly thrown into sharp relief. Bilbo trembles; he can barely recognize Thorin’s features and it’s as if a stranger was glaring down at him.

“Thorin, wha –“

“Do not lie to me!” Thorin hisses, leaning forward, “I know you have taken it! Give it back! It is mine! Mine!”

Bilbo’s breath stops. Don’t panic, he tells himself, that’s still Thorin. Only the ring is talking – Thorin in his right mind would never act like this, never lay a hand on Bilbo. And a part of Bilbo’s mind wonders what the aftermath of this will turn out to be.

“Thorin,” he says carefully, calmly, “I have not taken anything from you. Please, Thorin, remem –“

The blow catches him off guard.

Thorin’s fist collides with his cheek abruptly, he’s thrown off his feet and his vision grows white. Then he’s crouched against the wall, knees shaking, his cheek numb but for an ill-boding throb running through his entire body.

“Thorin,” Bilbo gasps, disbelief freezing his mind. The first stab of pain hits, he tastes copper. His mind still refuses to believe Thorin just raised his hand, that Thorin did this after he vowed to never harm Bilbo again.

A hand fists in the collar of his coat, jerks him up. Bilbo’s head snaps back, collides with the wall and his vision flickers.

“Give it to me!” Thorin roars and shakes the hobbit. Fear surges through Bilbo – the face before him is twisted in fury, madness lights his eyes and nothing of his Thorin is left.

And Bilbo abruptly realizes his folly.

In the throes of goldsickness, Thorin had still recognized him. Even after the ill thought out deal with the Arkenstone, Thorin had been hurt by Bilbo’s betrayal just as much as by the loss of the stone. This, however, is utter corruption.

Whatever Thorin sees before his dulled eyes is not Bilbo any longer.

With a choked yell Bilbo pushes back. In surprise Thorin’s hands loosen their grip and the hobbit ducks to the ground, ignores the ringing in his ears. Run, run, run, a part of his mind yells, while his heart breaks again, because this time he lost Thorin. Utterly lost him to the ring, and if he’d only realized it earlier –

Panic surges, he barely manages to evade Thorin’s hand. Thorin curses, yells. Bilbo’s heart pounds loudly – he needs to get away, his mind screams.

The door. If he gets out he can shout for help – he needs help, Thorin isn’t himself, Thorin needs help, too. He should’ve never returned on his own, should’ve anticipated the reaction, should’ve –

A hand catches his shoulder. Jerks him to the side.

Bilbo loses his footing. His heart jumps, the world shifts. For a moment, everything is askew.

Then he slams to the ground. His vision flickers, breath rushes from his lungs, a sharp pain races up his spine. Something hot and wet spreads from the back of his head and everything feels wrong, wrong, wrong. A shrill ringing fills his ears, abruptly Thorin is crouched above him.

“Give it back, give it back!” the King chants madly, the glint in his eyes blurred. Bilbo notices the darkness flickering on the edges of his vision. Realizes this is not just Thorin’s body blocking out the lights.

His toes grow numb.

“Thorin –“ he mumbles, lifts a shaking hand and it takes much more effort than it should.

Thick hands close around his throat.

This battle Bilbo will concede. This fight he cannot win – not when he knows how much stronger those hands are, not when his lungs already tighten and his body grows tired. But he knows the ring is well on its way away from Erebor. The madness will pass.

Even if the darkness claims him here, it will not claim the ones he loves. Fili and Kili will live on, and Erebor will endure. So will the Shire and Rivendell, and all of Middle Earth. Those distant lands Bilbo never saw, those places dear to his heart. And all the friends he made in his years here.

So he rests his tired hand against Thorin’s cheek, feels the familiar skin one last time. Studies those beloved features, finds those blue eyes. Under that layer of madness, his Thorin endures, he is sure. As darkness creeps into his vision, Bilbo keeps his eyes fixed on Thorin.

Because as the world grows blurry, as his lungs scream for air, as his strength runs out, he thinks he sees his beloved again.

***

With a dull thud the arm hits the ground.

Frantically Thorin reaches for the coats pockets, heart beating ever faster when his hands with nothing. A shudder runs down his spine, despair spikes - it has to be there, has to be!

With shaking fingers he turns the pockets inside outs, traces the fabric. Nothing, nothing at all.

For a moment his mind goes white. This can't be happening. If it's not there -

It doesn't bear thinking about.

Maybe another pocket, his mind screeches, maybe somewhere else. And of course that makes perfect sense, because keeping something so precious in easily accessible pockets is unthinkable. It could be stolen.

A faint stab of pain races through Thorin's head. Tension, he tells himself and rips open the coat, not caring that buttons go flying. The body bounces on the floor, a lifeless rag doll. Blood stains the collar of the shirt, but Thorin's eyes are drawn to the pockets.

Two on the waistcoat.

It has to be here. The ring has to be in one of them!

The fabric feels soft under his fingers, retaining warmth. Thorin senses the chest lift, struggling to breathe. For a moment he thinks he might be forgetting something.

Then he remembers the ring and hastily digs fingers into the small pockets. They don't fit his entire hand, and he knows the first is empty.

Surprising that Bilbo could fit his entire hand in there -

The ring. He must find it, needs it, needs it now. Precious beyond measure, dearer to him than even the Arkenstone.

Than even B -

Thorin flinches. A spike of pain runs through his head, makes him bite down on his tongue even while his hands turn out the other pocket.

Bilbo...

Something shifts in his head. A wall begins to crumble and light pierces the suffocating darkness enshrouding his mind.

It's like waking up from a long, terrible nightmare.

He has blurry recollections of darkness, of desire. Of a burning need devouring him, yet all these shadowy memories dance out of reach the moment he tries to focus.

Thorin blinks. Realizes he sits on the floor in his own chambers.

His finger brush past something rough.

He looks down. An acorn rests atop the familiar green fabric of a waistcoat, the pocket turned inside out -

Dread fills Thorin.

No, please, no, no. His eyes turn up.

And it's Bilbo with his eyes closed and a halo of blood spreading underneath his head.

***

Nothing can be done. Erebor’s head healer shakes his head grimly. “It’s the head injury. He’s bleeding into his head. It’s unlikely he’ll wake before the end.”

Thorin nods in consternation as the man turns away and leaves the King’s chambers. Terror, grief, bone-crushing regret mingle in Thorin’s veins when he returns to the bedside of his beloved. He has no right to be here, not after his own hand put Bilbo in this state.

The hobbit’s throat is ringed purple and blue. Thorin knows those prints match his fingers – blurry his memory may be, but he can still feel the soft skin under his fingers. How easily it gave.

Remembers the hand that reached out for him only to drop aside, ignored.

His heart clenches. Tears burn in his eyes as he leans forward to stroke Bilbo’s curls. Already the hobbit grows pale. Laid out among the softest and warmest of blankets, he looks small and fragile – he should have never had to face such terrors. Never should have needed to stand up to Thorin.

Perhaps he should have never taken Bilbo from the Shire.

Maybe it would have been better had his quest failed. At least, Bilbo would have lived happily ever after in his beautiful home in the Shire. In peace and tranquility.

Thorin bends down to press a kiss on Bilbo’s forehead. The hobbit doesn’t stir; his eyes remain closed. And Thorin wishes they would open, just once more, just so that his last memory is not that blurred recollection of Bilbo looking up at him, searching, gasping for air, only to close his eyes with a small, resigned smile on his face.

“Please no,” Thorin murmurs and his voice cracks.

He collapses onto the bed. Draws the limp form into his arms and holds him tight. Wishes for just one chance, only one more chance to make up for everything.

***

As morning breaks, Bilbo has passed. Thorin does not want to release him, does not want to step away. Knows if he lets go now, he will never hold Bilbo again.

“Thorin,” a sharp knock on the door, “I’m coming in.”

Thorin barely manages to straighten, reflexes demanding he sit up as Dwalin marches in. Dark rings line the warrior’s eyes, and he looks at Thorin with a mixture of disgust and pity. Of course, Dwalin loved Bilbo as a dear friend.

Of course, Dwalin knows why he died.

“He…?” Dwalin begins, eyes anxiously looking to the still body.

Thorin glances away. Looks at the pale hand he still holds. “Has passed,” he whispers.

A small noise, somewhere between a sob and a curse escapes from Dwalin. When Thorin glances up, the warrior’s face is scrunched up in grief and rage. Thorin remains seated – should Dwalin desire to take his head here and now, he will not fight.

He would welcome it.

Instead, Dwalin steels his expression. “There is … there is something you should know.”

***

Thorin learns what Bilbo has done. Takes a deep breath before he sends out the ravens.

Gloin will administer Erebor until his nephews return. Initially he had asked Dis or Dain, but both had insisted on accompanying in. Even Gloin only agrees to remain because his leg does not allow travel.

All the others - Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Nori and Dwalin - they collect their weapons and armor. Dain leads two thousand from the Iron Hills. Balin and Oin come with six hundred warriors from Moria. Dis leads five thousands from Ered Luin and the Blue Mountains.

Their banners, lined with red and black, flutter in the wind.

This is not a march many expect to return from. This may not be a battle they can win.

But for what he did to them, for the ill he brought upon them and the lives he claimed. For all this, and most of all for the sake of Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield will lead the greatest dwarven army since the days of Durin the Deathless into the field.

***

***

As the fourth age dawns, Kili is crowned King under the Mountain. Fili, worn thin from carrying the ring all the way to Mount Doom, refused the crown. He is fading, they all know. When the time comes, he may leave with the last elves.

The world around them prospers.

And yet it is much changed. Too few survived - of the company only Dori and Bombur returned. Nori had turned to them, back when they had all recovered in Minas Tirith, a contemplative expression in his face.

"I will go south," he had told them, and shrugged, "Dunno if I'll come back."

And Kili hadn't understood then, but he does now. The world around them changes - it is reborn. And in this new world there seems to be little space and lesser use for them - creatures of a bygone age whose knowledge of battle and war is rendered irrelevant by peaceful and prosperous times.

It is not a bad change, Kili thinks wistfully as he watches Erebor thrive, and one he is proud to call his legacy. Likely, Thorin and Bilbo would be proud, too, could they see what their actions brought.

And yet sometimes Kili wishes this peace could have been bought at another price. He remembers the dead and dying in Gondor. Remembers waking to find himself and his friend alive, only to have his joy dashed moments later by learning both Bilbo and Thorin died.

A warrior's death, they call Thorin's. Nobly done, bringing down the Witchking of Angmar himself with him. Bilbo's death, the chronicles claim, was brought on by the ring. They do not mention details, but Kili knows it was by his uncle's own hand that Bilbo died. And he knows that when Thorin left Erebor and led the armies south he never planned to return.

A glorious new age dawns. But only for those, Kili thinks, that do not know at what price it has been born.

  _Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to drop me a line here or talk to me on [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com). (i think the next installment could be a resurrection plot.)


	39. A bright gem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accidental fall in Erebor threatens to kill Bilbo, but Thorin decides to intervene. And yet, fate will not leave them be. Not yet, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out different than expected. More sap XD
> 
> But, be warned: character death, canon-typical violence and Azog. The ending is fairly sappy, though.

Please, Thorin thinks desperately, please. He reaches out with a shaking hand to swipe blood and grime-stained curls from Bilbo’s clammy forehead. Minor tremors run through the small form on the gold-covered ground; green eyes are clenched shut tightly. Bilbo sucks in a sharp breath, chest rattling. Broken bones, Oin diagnosed and Thorin only needs to look down at the splayed limbs, twisted and bent at improbable angles to confirm.

He should’ve been faster, noticed Bilbo swaying. Should have made sure to see to his hobbit’s needs. Bilbo had asked him to eat, to rest. He should have realized that Bilbo needed these, too, and not blindly have relied on his own strength. Thorin presses his lips together.

“Is there nothing you can do?” Thorin asks of his silent companions. In the cavernous treasure hall, his voice echoes down to the last pleading note. He turns, the gold shifting underneath him. “Nothing?!”

The falling coins clinker loudly in the silence, but Oin shakes his head silently, eyes cast down. In the back of his mind Thorin knows that it’s too late, that no earthly means can save their precious burglar. The fall was too far, the ground too hard. Hobbit bodies too frail.

A small cough falls from Bilbo’s lip, bringing forth a trickle of bright red blood. Thorin’s heart clenches. No, he thinks, please no. Not after they all survived so many dangers. Not from such a minor incident – not from a dizzy spell and an unlucky fall onto hard, unforgiving treasure.

A dwarf may have lived. But Bilbo is a hobbit, and his body has been weakened by their journey. Hobbit bones were not made to survive falls from great heights. The body in Thorin’s arms shudders and Thorin’s fingers clench.

Something rolls out from underneath Bilbo’s coat and a familiar glow lights the vast hall, casting deep shadows on Thorin’s face. Somebody gasps, but to Thorin’s eyes the Arkenstone’s light now seems dull. Dull, when the light from Bilbo’s eyes begins to fade

How bitterly ironic for the stone to appear now, he thinks. How –

But its glow is bright. Seductive. Alive.

Oh, Thorin thinks and straightens, of course.

***

Bilbo wakes up confused. He’d thought he was dying, and while tired, his body does not ache. The broken ribs seem to have vanished overnight, as have all the other bones he remembers having been shattered. His lungs strain only a little when he breathes in deeply. In sitting up, sore muscles protest and his back cracks when he moves his head – but his body is hale. Miraculously, inexplicably hale.

He hears a door opening and turns to see Thorin enter the dimly lit chamber, a steaming bowl in his hand. When he finds Bilbo awake, his eyes light up.

“Bilbo,” he greets gladly, “You are awake.”

The hobbit nods, shifting uneasily on the mattress of what he realizes is a luxurious bed. The covers under his fingers are brocade and furs, soft even after decades of disuse.

“How are you feeling?” Thorin inquires, settling on the bed next to Bilbo, his eyes tracing the hobbit’s outline.

Bilbo blinks at him, still confused. He recalls blinding pain, liquid in his lungs, tunneling vision. Everything had been wrong, so utterly wrong that he had known -

Could he have really been so wrong?

“Fine,” he mutters in reply to Thorin’s question and disbelief colors his voice, “Quite fine.” Where there should be broken bones, everything is hale. His ribs do not ache, his toes wriggle when he wants to, and there is only a minor tremor in his hand as he accepts a steaming mug from Thorin.

“I’m afraid we do not have much in supplies,” Thorin tells him, “I will see that we gain more, soon.”

When Bilbo sets down the mug and warmth spreads through his body, Thorin leans forward and covers Bilbo’s hand with his own. “You will be safe here,” he promises, “Nothing will harm you.”

Bilbo blinks. “Of course,” he mumbles, confused at the affections. Perhaps he was wrong, he tells himself. Perhaps his injuries were never so grave, and his memory only distorted the reactions he remembers.

***

But maybe Bilbo’s memory is not the only thing distorted. While glad to have him back, the company is especially careful of Bilbo to the point of coddling him. All of a sudden, he is no longer asked to join explorations or help with restoration.

Thorin likes to keep him nearby. Between the Arkenstone and Bilbo, there seems to be little on the King’s mind. And when the survivors from Laketown come, when they plead for help, Thorin’s eyes turn hard.

Not even Bilbo’s words can reach him.

And so, on the brink of war, Bilbo comes up with a terrible plan.

***

“The stone is real,” Bilbo confesses and the world around Thorin begins to crumble, “I gave it to them.”

The ground seems to disappear. With darkness yawning in Thorin’s chest he turns, barely even aware of the wild expression in his eyes. This cannot be, every vein in his body screams in despair, this cannot be happening. He reaches out, though Bilbo flinches, and Thorin only hears his own voice from far, far away.

“You. Why did you – “

Bilbo evades him, eyes sparkling with live. “Because you are changed, Thorin Oakenshield!” he yells, voice rising in volume, “Because you are beyond rational thought, beyond reason! I would not have given it away had I not thought you’d get us all killed!”

His words echo like a thunderclap. Thorin blurrily recalls there are two armies and twelve dwarves watching them, but he’s caught in a spiral of despair. Their lives – Bilbo doesn’t know, doesn’t understand what he traded.

“You don’t understand,” Thorin murmurs, his eyes burning. Bilbo doesn’t step away now, instead allows Thorin to grasp his shoulders, watching him warily.

“No, Thorin,” Bilbo says a bit softer, “I do. I do understand that this gem has consumed you. And it’s making you do things you would never do, so I did what I had to. Understand that, Thorin, please. I only did it to win us peace.”

“Peace,” Thorin echoes, glancing down. The Arkenstone shines in Bard’s hand with a light more precious than anything else. A light that mirrors the spark in Bilbo’s eyes, and terror surges in Thorin.

“Return it!” he shouts to Bard below, not caring that his voice hitches, “Return it at once!”

“Only if you honor your word,” Bard shouts back, though he is visibly shaken by Thorin’s reaction.

Thorin takes a shaky breath. “I will.”

***

Later, when the gold has been ferried out of the mountain, Thorin closes shaking hands around the gem. Bard eyes him in thinly veiled disgust, Bilbo looks exasperated. He doesn’t understand, Thorin thinks, none of them do.

They look at him and judge him mad, obsessed with a stone.

But it is not just a stone.

“Thorin,” Bilbo asks quietly, keeping his voice out of earshot of anybody else, “Do you understand? I did this because I wanted to see you live.” I did it for you, Thorin hears, and Bilbo, sweet Bilbo, has no idea what he almost traded.

Thorin reaches out, catches a small hobbit hand in his, and notices with a frown that it is still thin. Still too frail for these harsh surroundings.

“I do,” he tells Bilbo to assuage him. And truly, he has realized, seeing the gold dispersed to Laketown did not make him angry. Still so much remains in Erebor, though he hardly cares for it. Not when Bilbo is by his side, hair brighter than the most polished gold and worth more than ten treasuries combined.

And still Bilbo looks so sad.

“I love you,” Thorin tells him and presses a kiss into his hair.

***

He wants to return the Arkenstone to the treasury. Not because it belongs there, but because this is likely the safest place. He cannot risk the stone being stolen, not when so much more hinges on it.

But it is not to be.

Before any of them can return into their mountain, the ground shakes and crumbles. Earthworms pierce the ground from the north, orcs stream from the tunnels. An army has come, an army lead by Azog, and as the sky darkens Thorin’s heart sinks.

“Go inside,” he yells at Bilbo, trying to press the wrapped bundle of the Arkenstone into the hobbit’s hands, “Take this and go inside!” They’ll defend Erebor’s entrance somehow.

Bilbo, pale as a sheet, shakes his head. “No, Thorin, no! I’m not going to hide, I’ll –“

A loud screech interrupts them. Bats descend from the sky, dark and ugly with razor sharp claws. Bilbo ducks, cowering behind a broken pillar, somebody shouts and Thorin draws his sword. Arrows fly, but the situation escalates. Already there’s fighting nearby, and he’s lost sight of half of his company.

“Go!” he yells at Bilbo. Then an orc hisses nearby, Thorin twists and dispatches it.

When he looks back, Bilbo has vanished. Hopefully he ran, Thorin thinks and hastily hides the Arkenstone in the inner pocket of his coat, hopefully he will be safe. He will protect the stone; and pray for Bilbo’s safety.

***

The night proceeds.

As morning dawns, Thorin finds himself high on the frozen waters of river running, his nephew dead and his archenemy before him. Blood stains his torn clothes, and more joins it as he hits the ground with a dull thud, all air fleeing his lungs.

Darkness blurs the corners of his vision, and he only hears something heavy roll away from him.

“Look here,” Azog crows, scooping up the fallen stone carelessly. It shines brightly in the light of the rising sun, and Thorin fights to make his body move. His breath rattles in his chest and he knows these ribs are broken.

His left shoulder is numb, as are the fingers clenched around Orcrist’s hilt, but he cannot let go of the sword now, cannot allow himself to falter. Death creeps upon him like an old friend. Even if he wins this, even if he takes Azog’s head, he may not live, but after a night of terror, a night of battle, it will be okay.

Down below the eagles have turned the tide, he thinks, and if he defeats Azog his due has been done. Fili avenged, and he hopes Balin will help Kili rule, and they will all find happiness one day.

“A pretty thing, isn’t it?” Azog contemplates, turning the Arkenstone over in his hand. A spike of panic runs through Thorin. If Azog drops it –

He manages to push himself to his knees, forcing his ailing body to move, using Orcrist as a crutch. Already his vision darkens, but he cannot allow himself to pass out now, cannot give up –

“Thorin!” a sharp cry echoes over the river’s frozen surface and Thorin turns his head. A familiar figure hastens down from the eastern part of the ruins, the burly form of a dwarf following on his heels.

Bilbo, Thorin thinks and fear rises in his chest. Don’t come here, don’t come closer – An ugly smirk spreads over Azog’s face as he watches the newcomers. Blood stains Bilbo’s hair and coat, and Dwalin sports a bandage wrapped around his arm, but their faces are determined, eyes clear.

“Here you scum!” Dwalin calls, gripping his battle axe and glaring at Azog. Bilbo breaks past him, rushes over to Thorin and sinks to his knees.

“Thorin,” he murmurs, “Thorin, are you alright? Oh dear, you, Thorin, please, please, look at me.”

Thorin looks up and Bilbo’s face is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Framed by the light of the rising sun, his hair shines golden and his eyes sparkle like the most precious gemstones. It is not the Arkenstone’s beauty that has transferred to Bilbo, Thorin thinks dizzily, but the Arkenstone that has grown more beautiful from its connection to Bilbo’s life force.

“Thorin!” Bilbo calls and small, fragile hands find their way onto Thorin’s skin. They trace his wounds, his face, and Thorin feels a slow smile stretch over his face at their touch.

“I am alright,” he whispers, catching one of Bilbo’s hands in his own, “Quite alright. Do not fret so.”

Bilbo sinks back on his heels and eyes Thorin carefully.

“Pathetic,” Azog spits, having watched their encounter. Dwalin uses the moment of distraction to throw himself forward. Azog repels the attack with his blade, but has to take a step back. The Arkenstone remains in his hand and Thorin’s chest tightens.

He pushes himself to his feet.

“Yield,” he gasps out, because Azog must realize he cannot win. Not against himself and Dwalin, “You’ve lost.”

Azog’s face distorts. “Have I?” the orc inquires and then contemplatively looks at the stone in his hand, “I do still have this, though.”

Thorin suppresses a flinch. Next to him, Bilbo has climbed to his feet and drawn his sword, preparing to fight, but Thorin knows he cannot risk fighting. Not as long as Azog holds the stone.

“It is precious to you,” Azog crows, “It feels precious, too. Almost, I would say, alive.”

His eyes light up and Thorin realizes that Azog must know. Must have sensed the connection.

“Have you dabbled in black magic, Thorin Oakenshield?” Azog inquires, turning the stone over in his hand, “I wonder whose life is tied to this. But they must be precious to you.”

Azog’s eyes grow cold. And time slows down as Thorin sees Azog raise his arm and throw the stone and there is nothing, nothing he can do. His feet are frozen to the spot, and when they finally unfreeze, the Arkenstone hits the ice hard and shatters into a thousand pieces.

Next to him, Bilbo crumbles.

Thorin whirls on his heel, barely managing to catch the hobbit before he hits the ground and clutches the body tight. The light in Bilbo’s eyes dims, a trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth, and Thorin’s heart breaks. Bilbo’s lips move, there’s the ghost of a surprised “oh” brushing over Thorin’s cheek. Tears burn in his eyes, and Thorin only holds the slight body tighter.

Not Bilbo, no, he pleads the universe, not after everything.

Bilbo’s eyes find his and there is no recrimination in them, no anger or hate. But a sense of a understanding, peace and love, and Thorin cannot fathom losing this.

He collapses over Bilbo.

He does not hear Azog’s cackling in triumph. Nor does he hear the noise cut off, as Dwalin removes the orc’s head with one well-places strike. All he can feel is the warmth draining from the body in his arms, the heartbeat slowing.

Until it is gone, and Bilbo’s eyes have closed.

***

Thorin insists on carrying Bilbo’s body back himself. His own body may be weakening, but if he collapsed, he would welcome death. Only Dwalin trailing warily behind him, watching over Thorin’s every step, and the desire not to drop Bilbo keep him up.

All around him, faces fall.

Balin sucks in a sharp breath, Gloin turns away with reddened eyes. Ori watches in disbelief and Nori inclines his head. Bofur they do not see, and Thorin already knows he will grieve badly. As will the others once they learn Fili, too, has passed.

They had gone to look for his nephew’s body, but it had disappeared. Some good spirit, Thorin hopes, will have carried his nephew down to a better resting place. One where he has to take Bilbo as well; where they will sleep, safe and secure, those too-good souls. Neither should have been here, neither should have died, and Thorin knows he will never forgive himself for risking them.

Gandalf, too, looks grey as he spies the bundle cradled in Thorin’s arms, and hastes over, only to realize there is nothing any of them can do. Where was the wizard, Thorin wants to ask, when the battle begun? When he had tried to make Bilbo stay behind? When he could have begged Gandalf to take the stone and Bilbo and hide them somewhere safe?

But it is too late.

With a bowed head Thorin carries Bilbo to a bed.

And days later, when the worst of the damage has been cleared and snows have covered the blood-stained field, Thorin helps carry them all to their final resting places deep in the mountain. His too young nephews, laid out in state like the princes and Kings they now never will become.

His sister will never forgive him. But he will not forgive himself either.

Bilbo, too, is buried with the line of Durin. There are whispers, doubts. Logically, Thorin understands them. Burying one not a dwarf in these sacred grounds in itself defies all rites, but there is no better burial ground for their hobbit Thorin can procure. Bilbo does not belong into the cold depths of a mountain, he agrees with his detractors, Bilbo belongs to green hills and blue skies. Bilbo belongs to things living and growing and he should be alive.

The sacred tombs of the line of Durin are a barely adequate alternative.

***

The detractors keep whispering. And yet their voices grow quieter.

Thorin’s grief does not lessen. Not when his nephews and his love lie dead. But around him, the mountain prospers. Dwarves return, Dale strengthens. There is light, there is laughter, and before long the first hints of green break through barren ground.

Life returns to Erebor. Thorin is haled a good ruler, great some call him. When the time comes, he valiantly defends Erebor against the enemies from the South, names Dain’s son his successor. Some counsel him to stay behind. He is old now, aged, and beloved by Erebor’s population.

The kingdom may fare badly without him, some caution, the kingdom needs him.

But Thorin has never shied away from battle, and he will face this, as he always has. And when a blade slips underneath his guard and he collapses onto the ground, looking up at the sky, he greets the oncoming darkness as an old friend.

Above him, the sky is clear and blue and beckoning.

The air grows warmer. Screams and sounds of war grow distant. Instead of dirt, grasses tickle his skin. His armor has disappeared, instead he finds himself dressed in simple leathers. The aches from his body have vanished and birdsong fills the air. A hint of freshly baked pies wafts through air, mixing with the scent of blooming flowers, chuckles reach his ears. The sky appears a brighter blue.

He’s seen this before, Thorin thinks dimly. A distant, peaceful land. Many years ago he traveled through it. And then a familiar face appears and Bilbo Baggins leans over him, his face smooth, unwrinkled and with no trace of shadow or hurt in his eyes.

“There you are,” he greets with a bright smile, “I was waiting. Come.”

And feeling the first spark of happiness blossoming in his chest after so long, Thorin gladly takes the outstretched hand.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been drabbling over on [tumblr](wwww.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com). Some horror that I haven't crossposted yet, but shall do so sooon. XD


	40. Ashen morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo saves Thorin and pays the ultimate price. Decades later, though, here is a happy ending.
> 
> Edit: There is [art](http://non6ix.tumblr.com/post/133202888526/commission-for-paranoidfridge-who-asked) by the wonderful [non6ix](www.non6ix.tumblr.com). Please take a look!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I posted this on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/126700193362/ashen-morning) last week. ^^; Today is double update time - chapter 41 is new, too, though focused on Fili with background Bagginshield only.

Morning dawns ashen and pale. A bitterly cold wind brushes over the field where now frost begins to cover the remaining bodies. Within the shattered stones of Erebor’s grand entrance the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield’s company have sought shelter. Here, at least, the wind does not reach them.

Dori, Nori and Gloin have procured blankets from within the mountain to provide bedding. There are too few tents, too little shelter. Dain’s dwarves have not brought much, nor did Thranduil. Dale is but a ruin, from which yet smoke rises toward the brightening sky. The little sunlight that pierces fog and smoke bears no warmth, and those that survived battle may still succumb to the cold.

Oin works hard. At least - it seems - their company is lucky. Nori sustained a bad scrape, Dwalin broke his ankle and Balin lost two fingers. Minor injuries, though Oin would rather see all of them of their feet, especially Fili and Kili. The princes are pale, casting anxious glances out toward the field from where Dwalin dragged them back - Kili with yet another arrow sticking from his thigh and Fili with a gash across his back.

From their uncle no trace has been seen. Dwalin told them he went after Azog and then Bilbo after him - the news simultaneously elating and terrifying. Elating for Thorin must have finally slain his enemy. The orc armies have dispersed, leaderless and in fear. Terrifying for what likely happened to Thorin.

And Bilbo.

Ever since their smallest member slid from their midst to rejoin Gandalf below, they’d thought him safe. Thought the wizard would watch out for him.

They should have remembered Bilbo Baggins had a mind of his own.

Dwalin just set off, carrying a half-conscious Kili and a delirious Fili along. Hopefully they’ll get down savely, Bilbo thinks, and then turns his attention away. On the far end of the ice, Thorin is embroiled in a bitter duel with Azog. Both contestants sway on their feet, exhaustion and injuries slowing their movements.

Thorin is quicker, faster. But Azog’s got stength on his side and one blow from his weapon could easily kill Thorin. The King gets in one strike, two strikes, while Bilbo watches - yet none of them fatal. None even deep enough to slow Azog much.

The orc roars in pain as Thorin drives in a third blow, and then has to throw himself aside to dodge a surprise blow from the pale orc. The weapon hits the ice hard; even Bilbo can feel the vibrations,

Now he doesn’t really know what to do -

Help Thorin - but how? He’s but a small hobbit, he cannot -

Thorin slips and falls. Bilbo’s mind goes blank. Before he knows what has happened, he’s crossed the distance and throws himself at the pale orc. His blade cuts into thick muscle - Azog roars, takes a step back, but does not fall. Bilbo tries to cling on, throws an arm around Azog’s throat. His heart pumps; if he could cut the throat, he could end this, finish it -

Azog’s weaponised prosthetic cuts into the flesh of his upper thigh. The pain is abrupt, blinding, and abruptly Bilbo’s back hits the ice hard. His vision flashes black and white, he only feels the ground vibrate under heavy footsteps. His pulse thrums loudly, tuning out the shouting in his ears.

Azog growls something, Thorin shouts his name, and Bilbo knows he’s in a bad situation, but he can’t get his bearings, his head won’t stop ringing and everything hurts. Something hot and sticky covers his leg, he feels dizzy though he’s lying down and sick, too, and it’s like somebody covered his ears in thick cotton and -

He hears the woosh a moment before Azog’s morning star hits his chest.

The mithril stops the blow from piercing his chest. It doesn’t not stop his ribs from shattering. Or the world from growing dark.

* * *

“Thorin!” Fili shouts, “Thorin!” And Ori can barely reach out in time to keep the prince from jumping up. Next to him Kili attempts to sit, eyes lighting up: “Uncle Thorin!”

In the distance, Thorin’s regal figure emerges from the dusty air, walking slow and grave. A relieved sigh slips from Balin, Dwalin chuckles drily and Gloin shakes his head. For a short moment, gladness curses through them all.

Then Nori asks: “What’s he carrying?”

For held in Thorin’s arms is a bundle. Not recognizable from the distance yet, but -

“It’s a body,” Kili stammers, paling rapidly, “He’s carrying a body. Uncle! Thorin, who -” Fili interrupts his brother’s high-pitched scream with a meaningful shake of his head. They’re here, Dain’s alive, so -

“It’s Bilbo,” Dwalin says, voice already heavy with self-recrimination.

* * *

“No,” Thorin gasps, “No.” His voice trembles; his breath fogs. His leg has grown numb as he pulls himself across the ice, dizzy and exhausted. He doesn’t notice the trail of blood he leaves behind, spares no glance for Azog’s corpse. His eyes are fixed on the still figure before him, lying curled up on its side.

Dust and blood stained curls hide Bilbo’s face from view, but Thorin can see the fine tremors running through the slight form - he’s seen the hit Bilbo took. The hands Bilbo attempts to weakly press against his leg do nothing.

Thorin’s good arm gives out abruptly and he hits the ice hard. His head spins, darkness surges and he bites down on his lip, fights to retain consciousness. When his vision clears, one small, blood-smeared hand is stretched out toward him.

Thorin edges forward, but his fingers fall short a hand’s width away.

“Tho-” a weak cough breaks through the pained haze surrounding Thorin’s mind, “Thorin…”

Bilbo somehow managed to turn his head so he looks at Thorin. His skin is frighteningly pale, lips tinted blue and a trickle of blood runs down his cheek. Weakly he graps for Thorin’s hand that is just out of reach, and Thorin’s heart hitches.

Ignoring the aches in his body he pushes himself forward, enclosing that hand in his own.

“Bilbo,” he stammers, trying to stop himself from holding on too tightly, but still feeling the bones shift in his grip, “Bilbo, are you -”

Injured? Dying? What is he asking, he knows the answers.

Thorin forces down the confusion, forces himself to concentrate. “Listen to me, Bilbo,” he gasps, “Listen, stay with me, I’ll get you to help. You just need to - Bilbo!” A weak smile has crossed Bilbo’s face and the hobbit relaxes.

Panic surges through Thorin, his mind clears. If he can get the hobbit down, they could cauterize the bleeding. Maybe Gandalf can work magic and heal the chest injury. He should be able to -

Thorin pushes himself up, carefully draws Bilbo’s body against his own. A pained noise comes from the hobbit; he leaves a bloody smear on the ice. The stab wound in his leg bleeds slowly, but much blood has been lost. It’s his chest that’s been smashed, his chest that took the brunt of Azog’s blow, and eve the Mithril was not enough.

Bilbo coughs, a trickle of dark, red blood coming from his mouth and Thorin’s heart clenches. “Stay awake,” he pleads with Bilbo, “I’ll get you to Gandalf. He can heal you. You just need to stay awake.”

Bilbo weakly pushes against Thorin; buries a trembling hand in Thorin’s coat. “No, Thorin, I -” he breaks off, coughs.

“No, Bilbo, no,” Thorin pleads. His voice breaks, but if this is what it takes he will turn every drop of water in his body into tears. “You need to live, Bilbo.”

A faint smile crosses Bilbo’s face. “You… live, Thorin,” he breathes, “You… rule your mountain. Make… make your home… Be … Be happy. You have earned it.”

Thorin’s heart clenches in pain.

He grasps Bilbo’s other hand, tightly. “Not without you,” he replies, forcing the words out of his closing throat. “Not without you.”

“…I’d like that…” Bilbo murmurs, quietly, and Thorin’s heart breaks. For a moment he sees the future that could have - no, no, no, that still can be. The one where Bilbo sits next to him, smiles at him each day and they squabble over petty matters until they are old and grey and happy.

“And you will,” Thorin tells him, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes, “You will go back to your books and your armchairs. You will live wherever you want. Plant your trees, watch them grow, wherever on this world you wish to. And whatever you choose, Erebor will forever be open to you.”

Bilbo’s smile widens. Pained green eyes blink up at Thorin, slightly unfocused, but still so bright with live and love. “Thank you,” Bilbo rasps, trying weakly to press Thorin’s hand in return, but his fingers are cold, and the color slips from his cheeks, “Thank you so much. I … Thorin, I am glad I came… so glad I knew you… I could help you and…”

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts sharply, pulling the body closer. Move, he needs to get moving, a part of his mind urges him, but he barely has any strength left. “We - I owe you so much more, and we should thank you for all you have done for us, the many times you saved us. Without you, we would never have regained our home, never even gotten so far, and it is our, my honor to count you as my friend.”

Bilbo chuckles quietly, and fresh blood bubbles forth from between his lips. It’s a sole spot of red against his fading colors. “My friend,” Bilbo echoes, and despite the pain there’s true gladness written on his face and Thorin can only think he deserves so much more. So much more than a lone dwarf could ever give him.

Could ever have given him. There is no denying the slowing pulse under his fingers. How the body in Thorin’s arms relaxes bit by bit. The tremors, too, have stopped.

Thorin tightens his hold, draws the body closer into his arms and buries his face in Bilbo’s unruly curls. Beneath the stench of battle there’s hint of something else, still, and Thorin closes his eyes.

“More than a simple friend,” he whispers into Bilbo’s hair, “I would have… Would have asked you to stay at my side. Crowned you my consort, shared my life…”

To his surprise, a small chuckle reaches his ears. “I think I would have liked that,” Bilbo murmurs. His voice is quieter now, fading, “But… I think not this time. Perhaps… once the world has been renewed. … Perhaps once … we find each other again. My journey ends here, … but I will go with … my memories and your wishes… and I wish you all the best. Build your kingdom… rule and prosper… and maybe…from time to time… think of me.”

“I will never forget you, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin vows, already building memorial statues in his mind, “Never.”

“Be happy,” Bilbo whispers, “For me.”

* * *

Blood coats Thorin’s face and clothes. It is impossible to tell whether or not it is his own. The King under the Mountain appears shaky on his feet; his expression blank and determined. None dare stand in his way - not when they watch how reverently he carries the unmoving bundle in his arms.

Bilbo’s face is the color of death. Dried blood has crusted in the corner of his mouth, but his features appear peaceful, relaxed. Almost as if he was merely asleep.

But when Thorin gently sets him down on an empty piece of bedding Oin prepared; his limbs bend bonelessly and no flinch runs through that small body and there is no denying the truth. Bilbo Baggins has died, and so Oin approaches without hurry, while Balin rests a careful, companionable hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

The King under the Mountain shudders, though his eyes do not lose their pained haze.

* * *

Thorin does not know how long he sits there. In his arms, Bilbo’s body only slowly grows cold, the furs of Thorin’s coat retaining warmth even in the bitterly cold wind. The rising sun pierces the morning fog, casting a soft, golden glow to Bilbo’s skin and hair, and even underneath all the traces of battle, his spirit seems untarnished.

Tears burn in Thorin’s eyes still. Many already soak Bilbo’s hair.

‘Be happy’ The words echo. Thorin does not know how, cannot imagine where this road could lead after so much devastation. When the one that taught him to smile again lies dead in his arms.

Bilbo would have known. Pragmatic and resourceful, he’d saved them so often. He would have Erebor rebuild within a year -

Maybe Thorin can do it in his name. Maybe -

He swallows. Small steps, he tells himself in a voice that sounds like Bilbo, small steps. First he needs to get back to his companions, oversee the chaos. Carry Bilbo home, so that he may be buried with all the honors he deserves.

Even though he cannot make things right, he can still do the right things.

The pain never quite leaves. And yet, Bilbo’s last wish has come true. Erebor blossoms, though many mention her King works hard. Gold is traded frequently and easily, so any whispers of gold sickness soon disappear.

The name of Baggins is remembered and revered, to the point that once a young Frodo Baggins visits Bree he’s invited to several rounds of beer by a number of passing dwarves. Once the tale reaches the Shire, most inhabitants shake their heads. Lobelia grimaces, Frodo beams and Drogo decides he’d rather not go boating with his wife in order to not endanger their family name further.

The years pass. Fili and Kili grow up, and eventually Fili takes the crown. Thorin, now old and grey, watches with a smile how his nephew rules with a patience he himself strove so hard to possess. Erebor continues to prosper and Thorin lives long enough to see Fili’s children born and grow.

Knowing Erebor safe and his kin happy, he feels his own heart lighten.

And closes his eyes for one last time with a smile.

* * *

Or so he thinks. When he opens them again, a warm summer breeze tickles his face and he turns his - strangely easily moving joints - to look at green hills under a wide blue sky. Familiar laughter reaches his ears, and somebody drops down next to him.

Thorin pushes himself up, joints free of aches - his body feels young and strong, and his vision, too, is no longer blurry. His heart feels light and free and better than he felt for centuries, he thinks. He can breathe again, and Bilbo laughs at his stupefaction.

“I told you,” the hobbit chuckles, hale and healthy and gorgeous under this wide blue sky, “I’d see you again. We hobbits have no fixed place where we return to, so I asked if I could go wherever you were headed.”

He reaches for Thorin’s hand, leans closer. “I guess my wish was granted.”


	41. Kinslayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is double update time - this chapter is focused on Fili with character death and background Bagginshield. The other part (Ashen morning) is a Bagginshield ficlet i originally wrote on tumblr. 
> 
> This was written for a [kink meme prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26066434#t26066434).

Thorin’s madness is growing and Fili watches his uncle with increasing unease. His obsession with the Arkenstone blinds him to the growing exhaustion of his companions, the passage of time and the world outside. His only reaction to the news of the Laketown survivors reaching Dale had been to order the treasury guarded at all times – and to fortify the gate.

Fili had hoped. Hoped with every fiber of his being this wouldn’t happen. Had hoped his uncle to be stronger than the curse.

But he cannot deny what he sees before him. He can sense the call of the gold in his own veins, hears the beckoning song emanating from that golden glow. But one look at his friends, one look at his brother and he remembers not to give in. And he does not understand why Thorin cannot resist.

Dwalin and Balin can no longer reach him. When they mention diverting attention, Thorin suspects a plot. When Kili spoke out to help the Lakemen, Thorin implied treason, and Fili will never forget that look of terrified betrayal and hurt on his brother’s face. He loves his uncle, but not this incarnation.

This, he thinks, is no longer his uncle. His uncle would not have treated Kili so harshly. Would not be doubting their loyalty. Would not allow himself to be consumed by madness.

“Fili,” somebody calls and he looks up to see Bilbo making his way toward him. The hobbit, too, has grown pale, and looks perhaps more haggard than anyone else of their little troupe.

“Thorin said we’re going outside,” Bilbo says and tension suffuses his voice, “Everybody should come.”

Fili nods and stands up. The armor’s heavy weight is unfamiliar. Even with it he feels naked – they are facing an army of hundreds, not the best dwarven-made armor will save him, he thinks. Nor his brother, his friends, or his uncle.

Or their burglar. He wonders what Thorin is thinking – except for the mithril shirt, now well-hidden under the worn blue coat – Bilbo sports no armor at all. Perhaps Thorin will not allow his burglar out of the mountain. It would not surprise Fili. At one point he may have had misgivings that Thorin would trust Bilbo when he made threats against Kili and him. But no longer. Thorin’s trust is both blessing and curse, he knows, and from Bilbo’s behavior in the last couple of days, he thinks a curse is more likely.

Thorin barely ever allows Bilbo out of sight. And yet does not listen to any counsel Bilbo attempts to provide, shutting him down by reminding him that “dwarves are different”, “dwarves are strong”. They may be, Fili thinks, but they are not invulnerable. He’d rather make decisions like a weak hobbit, if it meant saving their lives.

And Thorin forgets his own strength. There are bruises on Bilbo’s wrist from where he held on too tightly, and the hobbit’s body is stiff, he walks uneasy, as if pained. Fili does not want to know what lies underneath the clothes, but if he ever felt a grudge against Bilbo, it has long since vanished. Now all he feels is sorry. Bilbo is as unhappily involved in this as they all are, and it is likely he will die today, too.

Maybe if he hid in the mountain –

Grey daylight greets them and Fili banishes the thought. He takes a deep breath, steps outside and looks down from the rampart. Rank upon rank of spotlessly dressed elven soldiers cover the ground between Erebor and Dale. A small group of men with rusty weapons has joined them, and above them a stitched banner of Dale flutters in the morning breeze.

It is a cold wind, carrying a taste of snow and ice. The clouds are grey, heavy, and Fili thinks that this is likely the day they die.

***

“The stone is real,” Bilbo confesses, “I gave it to them.”

And everything shifts. Something in Fili jerks, he wants to desperately deny it, but it makes so much sense, and Bilbo looks terrible, frightened and determined simultaneously. It cannot be true –

But the stone Bard slips back into the folds of his coat glows with a light unique and unmistakable. Even Fili, who has never before seen the Arkenstone, knows that this must be it. How on earth did Bilbo then –

“You would steal from me?” Thorin hisses, his entire body shaking with rage.

Fili’s blood runs cold, he knows his uncle’s anger and this is not it. This is fiery, mindless fury, but Bilbo doesn’t realize.

“Steal, no,” Bilbo responds, voice rising, “It stands against my claim.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, Fili realizes, and so does everyone else. They’re all waiting, horrified, breath held, and somebody needs to warn Bilbo. Needs to get him away from here, even if they don’t understand how he traded it, how he got the stone, why –

“Your claim,” Thorin echoes, icy hatred swinging in his voice, “What claim do you think you have, you miserable rat?”

And then he steps forward and reaches for the sword strapped to his side.

They need to act, Fili thinks desperately, now. But everyone’s frozen stiff, wide-eyed and panicked and Bilbo pales, but still doesn’t understand, still believes he can make Thorin see reason, still doesn’t understand the madness that has taken over his uncle.

“Thorin,” Bilbo calls, voice hitches, “Thorin, what are you – “

The King swings. Bilbo barely dodges the blade, but it leaves a deep scrape in the stone behind the hobbit. With a thud, Bilbo hits the ground, presses himself back into a corner and it’s the worst thing he can do.

“Thorin!”

Somebody shouts for Bilbo from below, but Fili pays them no attention. Not even Dwalin moves a muscle. And of course, he thinks, of course, they are dwarves and Thorin is their King, and it’s treason even if he’s mad. Even if they all know Thorin will never forgive himself, even if they know this is not who Thorin is, but a pale parody of him, and they’ll let Bilbo die for that, and –

No, Fili resolves. No.

Somebody has to stop this madness.

Maybe it is because he has not grown up as he should. Maybe he’s been too influenced by foreign cultures, maybe he’s just simply not enough of a dwarf. But he’s not going to let his little brother and all his friends perish for the sake of maintaining a meaningless tradition, he’s not even going to let a single hobbit die at the hands of a mad dwarf King.

“Stop it, uncle!” Fili shouts, unsheathing his own sword and stepping forward. Balin twitches, Gloin grimaces – by all rights, he shouldn’t be doing this, should stand frozen. But that’s not him.

Bilbo’s eyes widen comically, but Thorin doesn’t take note, does not even turn, but instead raises his sword like an executioner –

Fili lunges forward.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers not to aim for the fatal spots, but all his life he’s been trained to kill. The blade slides between Thorin’s ribs before Fili’s quite comprehended what he’s doing.

Bilbo’s eyes widen. Somebody gasps. Thorin’s sword clatters to the ground, Fili stumbles backward. Thorin sways, takes a step to the side. Then his knee gives out and he collapses to the ground.

Fili stares in disbelief. He did this, he knows. That is his blade sticking through Thorin’s upper torso. He feels numb, distanced.

Dwalin rushes past him, followed by Balin and Oin. Somebody is shouting, but Fili doesn’t hear it. Instead, Kili catches him by the arm, eyes wide and face pale. His lips move, though no sound reaches Fili’s ears. He allows his brother to tug him back, away from where his uncle collapses and he still cannot believe he did this.

This changes everything, a cold voice in the back of his mind tells him. Everything. The world will not be the same.

He’s just stabbed his uncle. His uncle who’s not the same, who went mad and a part of him just wants to wake up. Wants for this to stop. Close his eyes, and be back in the Blue Mountains once he opens them again.

***

Even for an event as momentous as Fili’s deed, the world does not stop.

He feels the passage of time keenly, sitting in a dark corner in Erebor. Whether he wishes for time to stop of hasten, he does not know. His companions have left him alone, though he wonders for how long. Wonders when they will be back.

Will Dwalin demand his head for his deed?

Would Oin come to pronounce Thorin’s death?

Will Balin cite the old laws and with red-rimmed eyes declare Fili’s banishment?

His heart is heavy, though he does not cry. Does not deserve to, because he stuck his uncle knowingly. Aware of the consequences; not blinded by any sort of spell or madness. And for all he wishes his uncle would live – for all he already misses the dwarf that used to ruffle his hair and teach him how to care for his weapons – the mad specter he could not allow to proceed.

Could not allow to get them all killed.

Fili’s sigh echoes among the stone. Kili left him here, he does not know how long ago, beseeching him to stay put. Muttering about how it all will turn out alright, do not worry – but his brother has a good heart and high hopes. Fili knows this will not turn out alright.

But he will face the consequences, regardless of how dire they turn out to be. As long as the others live, he can accept them.

Quiet footsteps draw him from his contemplations. Nori emerges from the corridor, his expression utterly unchanged. Fili cannot read what he thinks of Fili’s actions, as Nori stops and beckons at him to follow.

“Your uncle is asking for you,” Nori tells him, and Fili’s heart clenches, “Go to him.”

***

They pass the company. All have gathered in the antechamber of another room; their faces grave and solemn. The hairs on the back of Fili’s neck stand; his stomach twists. Do they all hate him? They should, he knows, but he finds only pain on those familiar faces.

Kili, Dwalin, Balin, Oin and Bilbo are not here.

“In there,” Nori says, and squeezes Fili’s shoulder lightly. The young dwarf nods, swallows. Fear coils in his chest, so thick and devouring he cannot breathe as he steps through the door.

The smell of blood hits Fili the moment he enters the small chamber. Buckets with dirty water and stained bandages litter the ground, half-heartedly pushed aside. Traces of frantic activity that has now died down.

At the center of the room sits a large bed. The sheets and blankets are clean but for a few spots of blood that whoever changed them must have missed. They cover Thorin up to his chest – Fili’s heart shudders. Laid up here, his uncle looks small, vulnerable, and he balls his fingers into fists until his nails dig painfully into the flesh of his palms.

If only –

“Fili”, Thorin’s familiar voice calls, gentle and hoarse, “Come here.”

His eyes begin to burn as he lifts his head. Thorin is looking at him; his eyes again clear and calm, and there is not a trace of anger or blame to be found.

Dimly Fili is aware of the others in the room. But his eyes are fixed on his uncle, his words stuck in his throat. Apologies, please for forgiveness, for understand – but he sinks down next to the bed in silence, his breath hitching in his throat.

“Fili,” Thorin rasps again and reaches out. Up close Fili spies the bandages under the covers, the terrible pallor of his uncle’s skin and wishes they could exchange places-

Thorin’s hand cups his cheek, pulls him close. The gesture lacks strength, but Fili follows willingly, allows himself to bask in this warmth that he knows he no longer deserves. That he –

“Don’t cry, my sister-son,” Thorin rumbles, a thumb brushing the wetness from Fili’s cheek, “Do not cry, please.”

“Uncle, I…” Fili manages before his voice breaks. He reaches up, draws Thorin’s hand between his own, pulls it to his chest.

Thorin looks at him fondly. “I wish I had more time to spend with you, and your brother. I wish these last week had been different,” he says quietly, “I failed as a leader and as your uncle. When I should have looked for your wellbeing, I looked for gold – do not be sad, Fili, you know this.”

Thorin’s breath stutters for a moment and somebody in the background moves. Fili does not look up, keeps his eyes fixed on his uncle.

“I am proud to call you my nephews. My heirs,” Thorin continues, softer now, “You did not fall for the gold’s spell – you stood up and protected my kin and company when I failed at my task. I cannot thank you enough for stopping me, Fili, know this.”

The hand Fili is holding wraps clumsy fingers around his own and squeezes.

“I shall pass glad to know my kingdom and loved ones in such capable hands,” Thorin whispers. Then, with great effort, he turns his head.

“Balin, make sure the histories tell the truth,” he rasps, “Make sure all know who the heroes of today truly are.”

Balin – who Fili now sees hovering at the head of the bed, eyes sad and grave – gives a short nod. “Aye, Thorin, I will see it done.”

Thorin chuckles. “And, old friend, do not downplay your own part in this quest. Dwalin, make sure your brother does not.” He smiles at the brothers, eyes shining with a gladness that breaks Fili’s heart, “And I’d ask you to look after my kin in my stead. If you would do me this last favor, as a friend.”

Dwalin’s eyes glint wetly in the dim light. He grits his tears. “I will, Thorin, I will.”

Thorin shifts a little more to look at Bilbo. The hobbit sits on the other side of the bed, mirroring Fili’s position. A white bandage wrapped hastily around his head does not hide the bruises blossoming beneath, nor the tear tracks on his face.

“Master burglar… Bilbo,” Thorin begins, softly, “I wish we had more time for I would have loved to share with you and experience all these things you have told me of. I should have –“

“No, Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts, his voice thin and squeaky, “Do not regret what happened, because I would not have had it any other way.”

Fresh tears trail down his face, before Bilbo bows his head and hair covers it from view. Not Thorin’s though, and Fili watches his uncle’s expression soften further.

“You have a kindly heart, my burglar,” Thorin murmurs, “And I wish the world will appreciate it wherever you chose to go.”

A choked noise escapes from Bilbo and the hobbit curls further into himself. Balin takes a step forward, resting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, while Thorin once more turns toward Fili.

“Fili, Kili, my beloved nephews,” Thorin says, looking at them with that old fondness, the spark Fili had watched flicker and vanish during the quest, “No uncle could wish for finer nephews, no father for better sons. Tell your mother I apologize for all the perils I lead you into, and ask her to forgive an old man his faults. “

For a moment Thorin seems about to add something. Then his lips slowly form a smile, soft and relieved, and he closes his eyes. One last exhale leaves his lips – then his chest stays still.

Kili brushes past Fili with a loud sob, falls down on the bed next to Thorin. Fili’s ears ring, barely hearing the commotion. Does not see Oin step forward, reach for Thorin’s wrist.

Only when a hand firmly grasps his shoulder and gently pulls him away, Fili glances up. Dwalin looks down at him, red-rimmed eyes free of recrimination.

“Come away, lad,” he says, “He’s gone.”

And the world falls apart.

***

Fili does not know how time passes after this. Everything is blurred, astray. There are negotiations he does not participate in; not daring to show his face. Elves and men, they know what he has done. And once Dain arrives, only to find battle no longer imminent, the knowledge spreads.

Kinslayer, they whisper. Dwalin growls and Ori spins tales, but it doesn’t help. Because it doesn’t change the truth, Fili thinks. The truth that it was his sword that claimed Thorin’s life. He murdered his uncle. He is a kinslayer, there is no point in denying it.

And there is no point in staying in Erebor, either.

He cannot in good conscience expect anybody to accept him as King, not with the blood that stains his hands. There is no desire in his chest for the crown either – Erebor has cost him so much already, and he wonders if it was worth it.

So he tells Kili he will leave. Of course, his brother wants to come. “Where you go, I go,” Kili insists, but Fili shakes his head.

Erebor needs a Durin on the throne, and Erebor needs a young and healthy ruler. Kili is the best fit, and he deserves the crown. Fili stays for his coronation, but leaves the celebrations early to pack. He isn’t quite certain where he will go – perhaps west, perhaps south. Perhaps visit his mother, though he wonders what she thinks of him now.

News must have spread all over Middle Earth. He should stay away from dwarven settlements.

A short knock on the door interrupts him, and it is Bilbo who enters. The hobbit looks changed under the layers of fur and gold-trimmed clothes. His eyes look older, but they have lost none of their gentleness when they rest on Fili – and Fili isn’t certain if he should. Because when he killed Thorin he both saved Bilbo’s life and murdered his beloved, so he’d understand if Bilbo hated him. Or at least avoided him.

Instead, the hobbit takes a look at his packed up belongings and sighs. “Kili said you were preparing to leave,” he says, “Have you put any thought into where you’re going to go?”

Fili shrugs. “Wander, I suppose.”

Bilbo frowns. “If that is what you want, I’m not going to stop you. But how about you come to the Shire with me? There is space enough in Bag End.”

Fili blinks, turns back to Bilbo. “You … aren’t staying?” he asks, uncertain. Somehow he thought Bilbo would stay – the hobbit has been deeply embroiled in negotiations and everybody likes him. To the point that he’s treated with the same respect as Kili is; considered Thorin’s consort though no official statement has ever been made and Bilbo refused the title when it had been offered.

Bilbo shakes his head. “The mountain … it will be a beautiful place, no doubt. But I’m a hobbit. My place is in the Shire.”

No, Fili thinks, studying Bilbo, this hobbit probably no longer truly has a place in the Shire. But this is a mountain filled with memories, and he can understand the wish to escape them. Perhaps his uncles wish will come true and Bilbo will find happiness – but it is unlikely he will find it with Erebor.

Just like Fili, Bilbo does not fit into this Erebor that will prosper and grow. He may not have struck the killing blow, but he traded the Arkenstone and Fili knows that some remember this, too. This mountain will never truly be home to either of them.

Nor will they ever fit into the Shire.

Bilbo shrugs. “Consider it, Fili,” he says, “You know Bag End has spare rooms.”

Maybe it would be a little less lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far! You may have noted, this is now marked as complete. I still intend to add drabbles as usual - I have merely been informed fics marked incomplete scare of potential readers.


	42. Hairloss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Losing hair, to dwarves, means coming death. So when Thorin finds Bilbo's hairbrush with clumps of hair stuck to it, he panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a [kink meme prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26231554#t26231554). No warnings, except for some angst and sap.

A spike of pain travels down his head. Bilbo’s face scrunches up. He tugs harder at the brush and it finally comes through, though not without a few strands of hair attached. With a grimace Bilbo brushes out the remaining tangles in his hair – it seems the longer he stays in the mountain the frizzier his hair becomes. At least dwarves have all sorts of oils, shampoos and ridiculously gem-studded hairbrushes to fight back.

Bilbo casts on more look in the mirror. His hair still looks like a riot, though slightly more tame than before. He’s likely as fit for the public eye as he’ll ever be, being a lone hobbit in a kingdom of dwarves. And while his appearance and every step are being closely observed by ever curious gossip mongers, he doubts they’ll be able to tell he lost this morning’s fight against the hair brush.

Bilbo sets down the brush, eyes the clump of hair sticking to it with frustration. Maybe another shampoo -

From outside the chamber he hears the bell toll and with a sigh rises. Time to face the day – at least today he’s no outside visits scheduled. The winter here is rougher than anything he ever experienced in the Shire and he spent the entire afternoon in Dale shivering violently. Not even the good spirits Bard had him try helped. He still feels cold.

***

Thorin hums cheerfully under his breath as he makes his way upstairs. His early morning meeting has – surprisingly and astonishingly – ended early, the parties involved in the discussion agreeable and constructive rather than stubborn. And as he suddenly has found himself with a nice hole in his schedule, he wonders if he can’t fill it by having breakfast with Bilbo.

He feels a bit guilty about having so little time to spend with their former burglar, especially after finally agreed to stay. Thorin himself may not have been one of the parties outright begging, but he fiercely backed the promise to make a home in the mountain for Bilbo. Sometimes now he feels remiss in this duty, but at least this morning he has a chance to make good on his word.

His knock on the door is answered with silence, though and Thorin’s face falls. It’s unlikely Bilbo still sleeps, so perhaps this time around Bilbo is busy –

But just to make sure, Thorin lets himself in. Just as his hope rekindles – the door is unlocked – it falls again as the apartment is empty. The doors to the attached bathing and sleeping rooms are closed, though the door to Bilbo’s study is open – but no hobbit is in sight.

“Bilbo?” Thorin calls, in case his former burglar is behind one of the closed doors. Silence answers and with a frown he looks around.

The sitting room is in a state of moderate disarray, what with the blankets and pillows obviously having been used lately. And while Bilbo usually likes his rooms tidy, Thorin also knows that sometimes there just isn’t enough time. This morning seems to have been a case like that.

Even the hairbrush still sits atop the vanity desk next to the door.

Thorin takes a step closer. Takes a shuddering breath while dread coils in his stomach. There are hairs caught between the brush’s bristles. He reaches out with a shaking hand and picks up the brush, for a moment ignoring the taboo surrounding the action.

But there are not just a few hairs. There are many. Golden they shine, but Thorin can only stare in horror at their ends. This cannot be. This can only be a nightmare; there must be another explanation –

But the hairs do not vanish. And swallowing down the panic in his throat, Thorin sets back the brush. The only time when one loses so many hairs in their life, he had been taught on his grandmother’s knee, is when death is imminent.

***

If he had been merely cold before, Bilbo has progressed to outright miserable by now. He alternates between feeling too hot or too cold, and both states cause chills and shivering. His head has started pounding, his throat runs dry and he started coughing mid-discussion. At least the dwarves easily agreed to move the meeting to another day.

And everybody else has the good sense to get out of his way as Bilbo makes his way toward Oin’s offices. Something for his throat and the headache – at least so that he can still participate in the noon meeting today. He’s almost convinced the tailor guild members to sign the treaty agreement with their counterpart in Dale, and it took him months to get this far.

He’s not going to let the chance of settling that silly conflict slide by because he’s getting a cold.

The guards positioned next to the healing rooms and Oin’s offices nod at him, and Bilbo returns the gesture before giving the door a short rap and entering.

Oin looks up from his position behind a strange apparatus set up on a workbench. Multicolored liquids trickle through it, steam rises from one end and Bilbo hopes that the strange goo that trickles from the other end is not Oin’s latest cure-it-all recipe.

“Morning lad,” Oin greets, setting aside a pair of googles and reaches for his earpiece instead, “What can I do for you?”

Bilbo opens his mouth. And coughs.

By the time the fit has finished Oin stands next to him and pats his back with his eyebrows ceased in concern. Bilbo blinks aside the tears, takes a huge gulp of air and forces himself to straighten.

“This,” he rasps, “I seem to be catching a cold.”

Whether Oin heard him or not, the healer hums. Looks Bilbo up and down before nodding and turning to another door – the one that leads to his stores. Bilbo follows silently, hoping whatever Oin will deem his cure to not be too foul tasting.

“Let’s see,” Oin mumbles and pulls out a drawer from the long rows of shelves, “For fever – no, no, I don’t think so. This – hum.” He casts a look at Bilbo and set the bright red vial down again. “No, this might make you hallucinate. Let’s see if I don’t have anything milder…”

He digs deeper into the shelf and Bilbo shifts his weight. Perhaps he should have just waited this one out. The cold is likely to clear up anyway, and it’s not as if he’s can’t work with a bit of a headache.

“Yes, this,” Oin exclaims at this moment and pulls forward a small jar of dried leaves, “It’s a tea they grow down in Harad. For some desert ailment or another, I heard, but it works just fine for a sore throat and the chills. Three cups per day should have you fine and dandy in a couple of days, lad.”

“Wonderful, Oin, thank you,” Bilbo says and is truly glad when he accepts the jar. With each word his throat feels more like sandpaper, and his body oddly sluggish. He’ll have the tea, he resolves as he stumbles out of Oin’s office, force the dwarves to sign the treaty and then retire. Missing dinner with the company will be a pity, but sleep sounds far more inviting.

***

Thorin hopes his expression betrays nothing as he hurries through the corridors. Bilbo seems to have vanished – nobody he asked has seen the hobbit, and that bodes ill for the panic growing in Thorin’s chest. What if something happened? What if Bilbo grew sick and now lies helpless in some forgotten corridor, too ill to call for help?

A spike of fear laces through him and Thorin looks from left to right. The few dwarves here all go about their business as usual, and everything appears utterly normal. It makes the hairs on Thorin’s arms stand. He forces himself to take another deep breath, hoping he does not look as terrified as he feels.

But what if Bilbo fell? The hobbit has mentioned heights make him uncomfortable; what if he lost his balance on a staircase and –

A familiar dwarf turns into the corridor before him and Thorin speeds up. “Oin,” he calls out, trying to sound calm and collected, lest any bystanders perceive his fear, “Have you seen Bilbo?”

Oin looks at him, takes in the widened eyes and too-pale skin and frowns. “What’s got you so unsettled?” he asks, “And yes, I saw our Master Baggins. Visited me just a moment ago, said he wasn’t feeling well and looked it, poor lad. Gave him a tea, he should be right as rain in a few days.”

Thorin grasps Oin by the shoulders before he can stop himself. His heart hammers in his throat, as the world spirals into darkness around him. So Bilbo is unwell – sick enough to seek out Oin. Does he know? Does he –

“Oin,” Thorin forces out through clenched teeth, “He’s losing hair.”

The healer pales. “He – what?”

“He’s losing hair,” Thorin repeats, voice hitching, “Not just a few hairs, but clumps. Whole locks by the looks of it, and I - I –“

Oin looks at Thorin with wide eyes, drawing the same horrifying conclusion. “He didn’t tell me that,” he moans, “He didn’t – We need to find him. Now.”

***

Meanwhile Bilbo is fairly glad nobody was around to see his latest coughing fit. The staircase leading up to the private rooms of the company is empty at this time of the day, and he sits despondently on a step, the spilled tea a few stairs beneath him. He’d had a few good sips of the tea – drunken half the cup already, the taste surprisingly pleasant when the fit had taken him by surprise.

Perhaps he’s lucky he didn’t fall and break his neck. At this point, however, Bilbo seriously contemplates canceling his afternoon appointments, and just curling up in his bed. The headache lessened slightly, but instead he finds himself horribly dizzy.

Bloody cold, he thinks and rubs at his eyes. Takes a deep breath, and resolves to force his aching body to stand.

At this moment Thorin and Oin appear at the bottom of the staircase, cloaks flying behind them. Thorin catches sight of him, and his face grows slack in relief.

“Bilbo!” he calls, just as Oin adds “Stay where you are, lad! We’re coming!” And then they sprint up the stairs.

Bilbo blinks in confusion, wonders if they think he’s fallen, but that doesn’t explain their general unsettlement. Perhaps something else has occurred? With an ill feeling in his stomach Bilbo makes to rise, but Thorin immediately pushes him back down by the shoulder.

“No, stay there, Bilbo,” he mumbles, leaning forward to press the back of his hand against Bilbo’s forehead. The skin is cool and pleasant and Bilbo’s eyelids involuntarily flutter close.

“What -?” he croaks, but Thorin has turned to Oin.

“He’s burning up, Oin,” Thorin exclaims, sounding terrified. The healer stomps closer, huffing, and suddenly two sturdy dwarves block out Bilbo’s vision.

“Look at me,” Oin demands and Bilbo sluggishly complies, “How are you feeling? Nauseous? Any strange aches? Weakness in the knees?”

It takes a moment for Bilbo to find his voice. “No, no, just a bit dizzy, so I sat –” Another coughing fit interrupts him. His throat burns, and his lungs ache and Bilbo can’t breathe – and then Thorin is rubbing his back, and guiding him to lean against his chest.

“Curse that cough…” Bilbo murmurs, voice scratchy and weak, and this would be terribly embarrassing if he wasn’t feeling quite so ill. It seems unlikely he will make the afternoon meetings, he thinks. Hopefully whatever Thorin and Oin need him for will not be too exhausting.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts, and Bilbo jerks back awake.

A worried frown has settled on Thorin’s face, while Oin’s has grown pinched and the healer is working on the buttons of Bilbo’s shirt. The hobbit cannot find the energy to protest, and even though Thorin asks him to stay awake, stay with them, the darkness beckons comfortably. Bilbo closes his eyes.

***

The body in his arms goes limp. Thorin looks at Oin, terrified. “He’s –“

“Just passed out, Thorin,” Oin reassures him, though a layer of sweat beads his forehead, “Just that. We’d better get him into bed, though.”

Thorin nods and carefully slides one arm underneath Bilbo’s knees and wraps the other around the hobbit’s waist. As always, he thinks once he stands, Bilbo seems so much larger when awake. It’s easy to forget that the body behind that vibrant personality is a small, slight thing.

Today, as fear curses through his veins, he wonders. Has Bilbo always been so light? Has he been losing weight, too, and nobody noticed? When his grandmother told him of the signs – the signs that foretell death – she named weight loss, too. Many dwarves grow thin and faint in their last months, lose hair and sight until death claims them.

A shudder runs down his spine, but Oin is careful not to disturb the precious cargo in his arms. He casts a look at Oin, but the healer looks equally distraught.

“Oin,” he asks quietly as they make their way to Bilbo’s rooms, “Is there anything we can do?” Because Bilbo is too young. Certainly, hobbits have different life spans – but he is too young to be claimed yet, there are too many things Thorin wants to tell him. Too many things he had hoped to share with him.

Oin worries his lower lip. “If I knew what was wrong with him, maybe,” he replies unhappily, “I thought he had just a cold. But if it’s more- I honestly don’t know, Thorin.”

Thorin swallows. In his arms, Bilbo does not stir. A faint layer of sweat beads his face, pale and relaxed as it is, and Thorin dreads what may still come.

“We’ll ask,” he vows solemnly. Everyone. Anyone. The men, the elves. Gandalf. They’ll find a solution.

Then he turns to one of the guards that have been watching them approach with thinly veiled consternation. “Call the company.”

***

Bilbo wakes up when he is settled against something soft. Somebody maneuvers him around, takes off his jacket and vest and loosens the topmost button of his shirt. Broad, warm hands draw a blanket around him and ruffle his hair and Bilbo feels like burying himself deeper into that lovely warm cocoon and sleeping on.

Even though he has no memory of going to bed. Nor how he returned to his rooms. A tiny, annoying part of his brain insists that getting answers to these questions is more important, especially since he last was on the stairs and dizzy.

And then Oin and Thorin arrived. They had been upset by something.

With a hoarse groan Bilbo rolls on his back and forces his eyes to open. A familiar ceiling blinks into view, as well as two highly concerned faces.

“Thank Mahal you’re awake,” Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo once again wonders what has him so unsettled. His lips are dry and cracked, but he somehow he manages to make them move.

“Wha’s happenin’?” he slurs. His throat throbs painfully, but he doesn’t cough and that must count for something.

Thorin’s face falls. “Oh Bilbo…” he mumbles, eyes suspiciously wet. An ill feeling blossoms in Bilbo’s stomach and he looks to Oin.

“What?” he repeats and tries to push himself up on his elbows, but Thorin rests a hand on his shoulder, insisting he stays down.

Oin sighs. “You should’ve come to me earlier, lad,” he proclaims, “When it first started – we could’ve done something at once. Now –” He shakes his head. “Don’t worry. We’ll try all we can, Bilbo. We won’t let you die like this.”

“Die?” Bilbo echoes. The world abruptly feels askew. Why would he die?

But that would explain Thorin’s harried expression. Why they were searching for him. Fear surges in Bilbo’s chest. Did Oin miss something earlier? Has he identified Bilbo’s symptoms and it’s not a mere cold? Ice crawls through Bilbo’s veins and he stares at Oin with wide, pleading eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Oin assures even though he looks greatly worried himself, “We will do everything.”

Thorin nods, his hands around Bilbo’s shoulder tightening. “Bilbo, I promise. If I have to beg Thranduil on my knees, I will. If I have to travel across the seas and back, I will. Just, please, just don’t –” His voice cracks and he turns away.

In spite of the shock, Bilbo’s heart warms. Everything feels skewed now. He’s about to die, but the world has not changed. And seeing the grief on Thorin’s face makes his chest ache in response. Bilbo shifts in order to reach up and awkwardly wrap his own hands around Thorin’s larger one.

“Thorin, I-” he begins, but is interrupted by the door flying open.

Fili bursts in, out of breath, with Kili and Ori following behind. Ori doubles over, panting, Kili stumbles forward, hair wind-swept, and Fili, out of breath, manages to bite out: “We came at once. What’s going on?”

Wide eyes look from Thorin to Oin to Bilbo. Kili pales, Ori raises a hand to his mouth and Fili’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“Uncle, Bilbo –” his eyes turn from one to the other, searching for an answer, “What -?”

“Did anything happen to Bilbo?” Kili manages, voice raw and breathy, “Who did it?” He fumbles for the blade at his side, though Oin only shakes his head.

“None of that,” Thorin chastens him, and then Oin adds, softer, “There is no enemy to fight, lad. I’m sorry.”

Ori flinches, realization written across his features. “Is Bilbo – is he dying?”

“Ori, no –” Fili begins, but the dead silence that ensues is answer enough. Thorin evades his eyes, and Bilbo stifles a small cough, until Oin clears his throat.

“We will do anything we can,” he promises.

“But he’s dying?” Kili repeats, flabbergasted. “Why? How? Bilbo, yesterday you were – did you catch something in Dale? You were healthy last night, so how did it come to this?”

Bilbo wishes he knew. He doesn’t want to die, not when he’s just started to settle in Erebor. Just when his heart had begun to open up again, and he’d started to hope –

“He has begun losing hair,” Oin announces gravely, “Your uncle found out earlier. It’s –“

“What?” Bilbo interrupts hoarsely.

“The first sign, as you know. I don’t know how long it’s been going on since Thorin only discovered it today,” Oin continues, never having heard Bilbo’s interruption, “But as he is now weakening in body too, I’m afraid –“

“Wait!” Bilbo shouts, though his poor lungs burn fiercely in protest. He’s bent over coughing, and Thorin rubs his back when his vision clears again. Everybody is staring at him aghast and terrified, and it makes Bilbo unease.

“Wait a minute,” he rasps, cursing his quiet voice, “Losing hair? What’s that got to do with anything?”

The dwarves’ eyes widen. Oin looks utterly perplexed, Thorin about to cry and it’s Ori who finally finds his voice again.

“A dwarf,” Ori states grimly, “Only loses hair when he’s about to die.”

Bilbo blinks. “Oh, that makes sense,” he says. Then his dulled mind kicks in motion and logic rails against the wrong conclusion.

“Err,” he adds before the dwarves can panic again, “Is that why – is that why you think I’m dying?” he asks, almost afraid to hope. Maybe it’s something else and Oin just named that symptom first?

Thorin nods. Oin nods. Fili and Kili nod.

“Well,” Bilbo tries to clear his throat and fails. With a scratchy voice he continues. “We hobbits, well, we sometimes just lose hair like that?”

And it’s not as if he’s going bald.

“Really?” Thorin asks quietly. The tiny amount of hope in his voice makes Bilbo’s heart ache, and this time he pushes himself up so he can grasp Thorin’s upper arm and pull him closer.

“Really,” he insists as firmly as he can.

“Oin, is that true?” Kili inquires shakily of their healer. Oin stares at Bilbo, dumbfounded, and takes a moment to gather his wits.

“Well, he’s a hobbit –” then his eyes narrow. “Bilbo, answer honestly: is losing hair a normal occurrence among hobbits?”

Bilbo tears his eyes away from Thorin’s for a moment. “Yes,” he rasps hoarsely, “Quite. Happens from stress or sometimes just like that. Also,” he has to clear his throat, little good it does, “I’m not losing that much hair.”

“But I saw your brush,” Thorin mumbles, his own hand having found Bilbo’s and clutching it, “There was so much hair on it…”

Bilbo tries to chuckle. The sound that emerges is far too grating, so he settles for a shrug. “Not that much,” he returns, “To be honest, I think I lost more hair during the quest.” When the dwarves’ faces pale once more, Bilbo hurriedly moves Thorin’s hand to his hair. “Look, all there. No bald patches, nothing.”

Thorin hand reverently strokes the curls, and something hot sears down Bilbo’s spine. He’d purr or make a similar embarrassing sound if not for their company, but luckily his brain is not yet so fever-addled.

“I think it’s just a cold,” he tells them, “Really just a cold.”

“Oh, I am so glad,” Fili mumbles and lets himself lean back against the wall, “I am so glad to hear this.”

“Me too,” Kili echoes, and Ori nods. Oin eyes Bilbo suspiciously for a moment longer, but then shakes his head with a heavy sigh. The lines on his face visibly fade away and he steps toward the door. “Alright, alright,” he mumbles, “But-” And here he turns fierce eyes on Thorin, “If anything changes call me. At once.”

Thorin nods, and before Oin has even ushered everybody out and shut the door, he’s drawn Bilbo into his arms. Bilbo’s elbow catches him awkwardly in the ribcage and Bilbo gets a face full of fur, but a moment later they’ve arranged themselves in a far more comfortably position. Bilbo soaks up the warmth emanating from Thorin’s body, and Thorin has his face buried in the crook of Bilbo’s neck.

The embrace is tight and loving and everything Bilbo has ever wanted. Maybe the cold has gotten to his brain, but he feels as if he’s floating and despite his aching joints he has never been so happy before. This is what it feels like to find home, he thinks as Thorin tightens his hold a little more.

“If I …” the King under the Mountain mumbles in that heartbreakingly small voice that makes Bilbo want to reach out and protect him, “If I had lost you, I –“

“I’m here, Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, though his throat aches, “I’m here and I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

Thorin draws back a little and Bilbo sees his eyes are red rimmed. So when Thorin leans in, Bilbo closes his eyes –

And sneezes.

Thorin jerks back, and Bilbo hastily wipes at his nose, embarrassed. Blood rushes to his cheeks, and he feels like scolding himself – but a small grin tugs at the corners of Thorin’s mouth, and Bilbo feels his chest lightening in response.

“Another time perhaps?” he mumbles.

Thorin chuckles, and leans forward to press a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “Certainly.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Dwalin shaved his head in order to get his tattoos done. XD
> 
> Edited: Thanks everyone for pointing out that whacky typo! "I will bed Thranduil," certainly differs a bit from "I will beg Thranduil"...


	43. A Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo departs from Erebor, knowing only Thorin lives. Years later, Thorin comes for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Angsty beginning, but fluff. 
> 
> Happy Hobbit Day!

The air smells of smoke and blood and charred flesh. Death casts long shadows over the camp that now men and elves and dwarves share, slipping through the smallest of cracks and openings to claim those struggling. Moans and sobs echo – most by now are too exhausted to scream. Bilbo’s vision blurs momentarily and he stumbles, but catches himself before colliding with Gandalf.

Before him, a dwarf tells Gandalf “They’ll live” and through a gap in the tent canvas Bilbo can see a familiar sword propped up against a cot. It’s a spacious tent and there’s a bow set against another cot, and Bilbo thinks there must be one more cot out of sight. Thorin, Fili and Kili, all in one place. Surrounded by the best healers this part of the world can offer. They will live

One knot in his chest loosens.

“Won’t you go in?” Gandalf asks abruptly, thick brows furrowed as he studies Bilbo closely. The hobbit looks up, catches sigh of the many unfamiliar faces watching him – his vision swims once more.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head softly, nausea keeping his lips closed.

Gandalf huffs. “Well, you better rest, I suppose. Once morning comes, thing will look different.”

***

Morning comes, and the world is changed, yet numbness has spread through Bilbo’s chest. During the night the dead have risen and danced before his eyelids, and their screams echo in his ears. He gladly accepts the numbing draught one of the healers offers, and sleeps on.

Snow begins to fall, and Bilbo realizes that it has been days since he last saw a familiar face. Instead all, but especially the dwarves eye him with distrust. Their conversations stop when he approaches; their eyes never stop tracking his movements.

They have not forgiven him.

Of course, Bilbo thinks, as he sits down to regather his belongings, they all witnessed his banishment. For a noble reason or not, he betrayed the King under the Mountain, and he might call himself lucky to be alive still. Others may have not allowed him this kindness.

It is, Bilbo gathers, high time for him to leave.

***

“Won’t you wait until Thorin wakes?” Gandalf asks, “Have you at least told the others?”

Bilbo grimaces. He’d rather not face them – after what he did, he can hardly look them in the eye anymore. And when yesterday he heard Dori’s voice nearby, he found himself ducking behind a water barrel.

“I’ve written,” Bilbo says evasively, thinking of the short note sitting in his pocket, “And I’d rather leave before Lobelia has me declared dead or something like that.” Donning that coat of hobbitish fussiness feels like wearing a mask. And yet it’s a role Bilbo can play, and Gandalf does not seem to doubt it.

“Very well,” the wizard sighs, “It’s high time for me to visit Lord Elrond anyway. We’ll leave on the morn.”

***

And so Bilbo returns to the West.

He does not know that he is the first person Thorin asks for. He never learns of the company’s disappointment upon learning he had left. The self-recriminations and guilt.

Bilbo wishes them the best.

And then he’s suddenly busy fighting to reclaim his belongings from hobbits whose greed might rival Smaug’s.

***

On the other side of the Misty Mountains, thirteen dwarves find themselves ridiculously busy ruling a mountain. Thrust into their new roles, Fili and Kili struggle with upholding the public appearance and meeting the demands put to them. Thorin supports them where he can, yet all seem to demand his time, and while he would love nothing better than to ignore those nobles that once ignored him, he cannot do so.

As a King without a Kingdom he was allowed to be rude. Could tell Thranduil what he thought.

Now he must thank him, incline his head just so and smile – else he might risk open war. At least, though, Thranduil now is required to do the same. And usually Bard makes a decent middleman.

Often, though, Thorin catches himself thinking of Bilbo. The hobbit would not have had trouble negotiating with the elves. He would have easily smoothed over the guild quarrels haunting him. His smile alone would have lit the gloomy throne hall.

“I’ll be sending a letter to the Shire,” Balin announces one evening, “If any of you lads also want to write Master Baggins, give them to me by nightfall tomorrow.”

That night, Thorin ends up casting six unfinished letters into the fire. Words, he feels, cannot properly transmit how much he regrets his actions. Nor can express how much he misses Bilbo – it always turns into a plea for the hobbit to come back.

And how can he ask that of him when he knows that hobbits are not meant for mountains. When it is likely Bilbo is happy in his garden.

***

Hobbiton is too small.

Bilbo knows that his fellow hobbits have not changed, that time in the Shire continues as always. He is the one altered; he is the one with less patience, with an entirely unrespectable desire for mountains and wider horizons.

So he travels. South and west, back to the mountains and to the sea. And each time when he turns back home, when the air grows cooler and announces winter he wonders – what if he carried on. What if he boarded one of the ships?

What if he crossed the Misty Mountains again?

Would Beorn host him, would Thranduil greet him a guest? Has Dale been rebuilt; how are Bard’s children? What about the Lonely Mountain?

And then he bends his head, looks at his feet and smiles wistfully. No, Erebor is no longer in reach. It’s likely he’s been named a traitor to the crown – going to the mountain then would not end well.

So, as always, he returns to an empty home.

***

Another year passes, and his home is no longer empty. Bilbo’s cousins have drowned; their only child has wormed his way into Bilbo’s heart. He’s not quite sure if he adopted Frodo or if the little hobbit adopted him. Though all relatives first insisted Frodo stay with his Brandybuck relations – with his cousins – it soon grew obvious that the child did not enjoy the lively atmosphere of Brandyhall. Instead he thought the companionship of Bilbo’s tales and quiet anecdotes.

And soon Bilbo found himself signing the documents finalizing the adoption

***

On the eve of Fili’s wedding, Thorin finally admits to himself that there is a hole in his heart. That he is not one of the dwarves entirely fulfilled by his craft. That in the end it is not Erebor what brings him happiness.

Oh, he is a selfish ruler. He should not care for things beyond the welfare of his mountain and her people.

But watching Fili spin his bride, watching their happiness, he acknowledges that having both is not impossible. That perhaps in this he may allow himself to be greedy.

Bilbo may not forgive him anyway.

Yet if he never speaks up –

The day after the wedding, Thorin announces his plan to travel to the Shire. Kili toasts to him, and the entire company joins in. Not even Balin protests being saddled with governing the mountain.

“Tell Bilbo we’re waiting for him!” Fili tells him with a wide smile.

***

“Mad Baggins,” is what they call Bilbo behind his back. Frodo would change it if he could, but his voice weighs little. And Bilbo himself does not mind, as, at least the children, are always happy to listen to his tales.

So it is only Frodo and his friends who see the maps, the sword and the scars.

Bilbo’s tales hardly ever mention them. When he leans forward to an audience of captivated hobbit children all his stories end happy, and Frodo himself learned much of the heartbreak and drama only after he came to live with Bilbo.

There are notes Bilbo made for his book – notes that inevitably are burned few days later – that mention betrayal, banishment and death threats. Frodo understands why this part of the story is never told to the children – but somehow he wishes that Bilbo would tell at least him. He’s no small child anymore.

He doesn’t like the sadness in his uncle’s eyes when he looks east on some days.

He doesn’t like how the rest of the Shire treats Bilbo. Sometimes he wants to tell his fellow hobbits to stop inviting themselves over for tea – especially if they’re just going to badmouth Bilbo after having abused his generosity. He does not like how Bilbo just smiles and shrugs when Frodo tells him to stop humoring them; especially since he has an idea of just how many hurts are buried underneath that smile.

And then, one glorious day in summer, a large caravan arrives. There are dwarves and elves and men, riding horses and ponies, drawing carriages and flying colorful banners. The carriages and the horses’ gearings sparkle with gemstones and gold, and the banners are made from precious fabrics.

The rumor goes up and spreads across the Shire in moments. Hobbits come from everywhere to watch. Stop their work and stare – some with distrust, others with unveiled awe and fascination. A large number of the caravan stops just outside of Hobbiton, and from his vantage point Frodo watches how a small group of five detaches itself and enters the village.

Even from his viewpoint he can make out the glow of polished armor. And is that a crown? Why have they come? Dwarves and elves and men, what would they want in the Shire -

Bilbo. Of course.

Frodo jumps up. “Bilbo! There are some dwarves in the Shire!”

“Dwarves?” Bilbo shouts back from his study, “Probably traders.”

Below the company crosses the river, and after a small moment of deliberation they turn for the path leading up the hill. Their leader is a dwarf, Frodo can see now. Another dwarf, two elves and a man complete the group.

“I think you should have a look,” he calls to Bilbo, growing nervous as they draw closer.

***

Bilbo frowns, wonders if he should take Sting. But if they’ve sent somebody to drag him back to Erebor to face justice, they’d not send anybody Bilbo could defeat. He just hopes they’ll spare him the worst humiliation, and allow him to put his affairs in order.

Poor Frodo. Maybe the Thain will allow him to live in Bag End, should he desire so. The lad’s almost of age, anyway, he will probably do fine.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, steels his nerves. He’ll face whatever comes.

The green door opens soundlessly, and he catches sight of Frodo standing in the left corner of the front yard, but the five figures on the other side of his gate take his breath away.

Thorin’s dark hair is braided around a golden crown that shines in the sun. A dark fur coat covers richly-decorated traveling leathers. And his eyes are fixed sorely on Bilbo.

He doesn’t hear the soft “oh” that falls from his own lips.

A smile comes over Thorin’s face, and Bilbo freezes in the doorway, white and wide-eyed.

“Thorin,” he mumbles, as his heart begins to pound. Even after all these years – after he tried so hard to forget about these days, about the connection he shared with this dwarf, about what had once grown between them – one look into these clear blue eyes and he’s fallen again.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin says, and it’s as if the rest of the world ceased to exist – they stare at each other, while Frodo, those other four, the rest of Hobbiton and from far away a contingent of dwarves and elves and men stare at them.

“A long time ago, I lead you far to the east and left you to return on your own with naught what I had promised,” Thorin speaks and his voice carries across the hill and the valley. The neighbors gape and watch and listen, but Bilbo could hardly care less.

Thorin approaches, the wind ruffles his hair, and now that they stand face to face Bilbo has to tilt his head up. Thorin in his dark furs, crowned and proud, and Bilbo dressed in bright colors – they could hardly be any more different.

And yet this feels right.

For the first time since he left Erebor, Bilbo feels the spark in his heart light again.

Whatever Thorin has come for, he will gladly accept it.

“And only after I have made my apologies I should dare to make my confession,” Thorin continues, and his lips lift and it transforms his entire expression into something soft and gentle, “But I will fail in this, at least one last time.”

He reaches up, gently buries one hand in Bilbo’s hair and tilts Bilbo’s head ever so slightly while he leans forward. Bilbo’s heart falters.

Their lips meet.

***

When Bilbo’s hands come up and wrap around Thorin’s shoulders, Frodo can’t quite stop himself from laughing. He sees one of the dwarves that came with Thorin grin, and joy bubbles up within him. And he begins to clap loudly.

All the hobbits that called his uncle a liar, that said his tales were made-up; he hopes they’re watching now. The fairytale King is real, and he’s come with dwarves and elves and men, and he hopes nobody will ever dare to accuse Bilbo of lying again.

He hopes that expression of heartbreak that his uncle wore when he thought nobody had been looking will be banished forever now.

First Hamfast Gamgee takes up the cheer, then the dwarves join in.

And when Bilbo and Thorin part it’s to a great number of hobbits, dwarves and men and elves celebrating them.

***

Later, when Bag End is bursting from the seams, Frodo gets to know the others. Lady Sigrid of Dale can hold her drink as well as any men or perhaps better, Prince Legolas of the woodland realm seems strangely fascinated at hobbit furniture. His companion, Lady Arwen from Rivendell rolls her eyes and instead joins Frodo and Dwalin for a game of conkers.

They play until the sun has set, and down the lights underneath the Party Tree are lit. Music drifts up from there, and it seems all of Hobbiton has come together for the unexpected festival. It’s a warm night, and Frodo cheerfully hums along to the foreign melodies.

“Now, this will be a party,” he overhears some red-haired dwarf proclaim to Prince Legolas, before they disappear down the hill.

Frodo smiles.

A shadow falls over him. He turns and finds the King under the Mountain standing next to him. Even with his fur coat missing, his persona is intimidating, though he directs a smile toward Frodo.

“Master Frodo Baggins,” he inquires.

“Your majesty?” Frodo flubs, the polite address feeling stiff and unfamiliar in his mouth.

Thorin twitches. “Just Thorin, please,” he asks, “Your uncle told me you have kept him company all these years.”

Frodo inclines his head. Thorin shifts, and for one wild moment Frodo wonders if Thorin feels uncomfortable – but he’s a King, he must be used to far worse.

“I would like to thank you for that,” Thorin continues, “And, while I know this is sudden, and you are certainly under no obligation to decide anytime soon – would you like to see Erebor?”

Frodo feels laughter bubble up in his chest. Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, is not only awkward around young hobbits, but also trying to co-opt them into manipulating older hobbits to traveling home with him.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I would like that.”

Thorin’s smile makes even the Party Tree appear dull.

***

“So you’ve bribed my neighbors, awed the community and won over my nephew,” Bilbo summarizes, as he follows Thorin down toward the Party Tree, their hands joined, “And I suppose everybody between here and the Long Lake anxiously awaits your return as well.”

Thorin chuckles. “Well, gold has its uses.”

Bilbo huffs, but when he looks at Thorin his eyes sparkle. “Then it seems as if I truly can’t refuse,” he proclaims, “Lest my fellow hobbits conspire to end me.”

It’s for show, but Thorin slows his steps a little. “Should you not want this,” he says, speaking quietly now to make Bilbo understands he means his words, even though euphoria sings in his veins, “Should you not wish to go to Erebor, for my company or for any of us to come here again, only say so. I promise no one shall ever act against your wishes in my name.”

Bilbo’s expression softens, and he reaches out with his free hand to tug at Thorin’s braids. “I don’t want that, you foolish dwarf,” he says, “In truth, I think I’ve been missing you for a very long time.”

Thorin’s heart flutters. “And I missed you, too.”

“Didn’t you have a mountain to look after?” Bilbo inquires and they pick up their pace again. Music and laughter drift up from below.

“I thought you could help me with that,” Thorin suggests, “You seemed rather apt. And I feel Bard and that elf agree – else they’d not have send envoys of their own.”

“You mean in case you failed to convince me, they’d have made me reconsider for the greater good?” Bilbo inquires laughingly.

“Something like that,” Thorin replies, “Though I do wonder if they didn’t only join so they could go and see other corners of the world. You should know, Sigrid is already planning to continue on to Rohan.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Youngsters,” he exclaims with faux-exasperation, “Never wanting to stay in one place.”

Thorin looks at him. The hand in his is small, soft and warm. Under the stars Bilbo’s hair glows golden, though some strands have begun to turn grey. He’s not the same as he was in Erebor – but Thorin is glad to see the haunted light gone from his eyes, and the spark returned.

Even after so many hardships, after all the adversity cast his way, Bilbo Baggins retained the smile that makes Thorin’s own heart lighter.

“Actually,” he says, wondering what makes him so bold, “I meant it – whether you wanted to help me administer Erebor.”

“I’ll help, Thorin,” Bilbo replies without looking back, “Of course I’ll help.”

Thorin hums. “You’ll need a crown, then.”

He’s rewarded by Bilbo stopping. The hobbit turns to him, wide green eyes sparkling. “Thorin?” he asks, expression wavering between joy and hesitation, “Do you mean –”

“If you’ll have me,” Thorin inclines his head and presses a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles, “Be my consort.”

Bilbo doesn’t hesitate. He throws his arms around Thorin, peppers his face with kisses. “I will,” he says, “I will.”

***

They arrive to the party a little late. Already there are dwarves and hobbits dancing on the tables, while the men have taken over the instruments. A group of hobbits is attempting to teach the elves a jig, and several rivalling vocal groups form spontaneously.

Before they know it, dawn arrives.

Bilbo and Thorin stumble back into Bag End only when the sun comes up. Frodo never tells anyone just whom he spent the following day with.

And whatever rumors spring into existence that day, they never last. With dwarves and elves and men camping just outside of Hobbiton, too much is happening for there to be much time for rumors. Summer passes in a flutter of festivals, parties and joyful occasions and before long the leaves begin to change color and it is time for the dwarves to return to their mountain.

Only this year two hobbits will accompany them.

***

The following year many more hobbits follow. They come to Erebor to see one of their own married to the King under the Mountain. 

_Fin_


	44. Faced with death, what can one do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the darkest hour, Bilbo buries the acorn in Dale. Once spring comes, Bard reports a growing tree to Thorin and Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst/fluff mix.  
> The way I'd hope the acorn scene goes, but I don't know (and I will only see the EE on the 21st. Whyyyyy?)

As it is Erebor’s gold that pays for the reconstruction of Dale, Bard holds it his duty to inform King Thorin of the proceedings frequently. It also, as Bilbo has pointed out, gives Bard a good opportunity to collect input from the dwarves who are generally considered the more skilled craftsmen.

“One of the men made a very curious observation,” Bard tells them one day in spring when the air is cool but the sky bright, “On one of the streets they found a tree growing.”

Thorin raises a tired eyebrow. “A tree?” There is little greenery around, but he still fails to see what makes it so noteworthy.

Bard gives him a small smile. “I know. It’s just a bit unusual – the size it is, it should have been planted three years ago, but while the dragon lingered nothing could grow in Dale. So people have taken to saying it’s a good omen.”

While Thorin isn’t inclined to pay much heed to superstition, a bit of optimism centered on a tree shouldn’t hurt. “Well, let us hope it is indeed,” he agrees.

Bilbo shifts. “What kind of tree is it?” he asks.

“Likely an oak, but I wouldn’t be able to tell,” Bard replies. Bilbo leans back, but from the thoughtful cease between his eyebrows Thorin realizes there is more to this tree.

***

A shrill scream pierces the air. Bilbo whirls around; the men around him flinch and draw back. "To me, to me!" somebody shouts, and ten men rush around the corner. Another slams into Bilbo, sending the hobbit stumbling.

He catches himself against the worn stone of a crumbling wall, the cobblestones before him blurring momentarily as his vision swims.

"Master Hobbit!" another voice calls and Bilbo looks up to see a vaguely familiar figure stumble toward him, "This way! This way! You need to get out!"

He tugs at Bilbo's coat and he finds himself following. Around him the world spins madly on - shouts and scream echo from the lower streets and the wind carries the smell of blood and ice and charred flesh. War has come to Dale and he is but a hobbit.

Below his feet the stones are slippery with ice and a darker fluid.

"This way, this way," the man urges. Bilbo complies blindly, mind numb with terror. Another shout cuts off abruptly, and the song of steel echoes down the solemn streets. Upwards they wind, steep and slippery and Bilbo gasps for air, his lungs burning from the cold.

The street turns another corner around a ruined building; the sounds of battle have become a cacophony surrounding them and Bilbo realizes with terror that the fight is upon them. Gandalf had told him he'd be safe. Told him to stay and wait and now the wizard's nowhere in sight-

And he should have known. Bilbo should have realized the moment Azog showed up on Ravenhill that the battle would not spare them.

The orcs will come, for each and every poor unlucky soul hoping the ruins of Dale may provide safety.

They will all die.

"Not that way!" another person shouts. Bilbo looks up to see a man stumbling toward them, bleeding heavily from a deep cut to his side. "They've taken the passage."

Bilbo's warden frowns. "We only need to get to the old hall. I'll be -"

A loud crash interrupts them. They turn to see an orc head roll down the steps, leaving a trail of dark blood on the crumbling steps. Bilbo's stomach twists.

"You won't get to the old hall," the man continues, "Not this way. The approach from the north may be open, but -"

"We can't go around," Bilbo's warden protests, "the Main Street below is blocked,"

His companion frowns. "Then we are truly caught."

Bilbo pales. "Is there no way out?"

Both men turn to him, pity on their faces. "There is none now. But perhaps you could hide in the buildings? You are small - they may not see you."

Bilbo’s hand closes around the ring in his pocket. He could hide. He can always hide. But the idea to hide while everyone else is being slaughtered makes Bilbo's insides rebel.

"That sounds good,” one of the men says, “Run, little hobbit. We'll hold them off as long as we can, and if the Valar have mercy, they will spare you."

They nod at each other and go. Bilbo stares after them, feels the world grow distant, his knees go numb.

He's not going to sit like a coward. He's a hobbit, doesn't know the least about war and fighting and already his chest is tight with fear.

No, he wants to shout after them, I'll come with you. But his tongue is glued to his gums, and the words don't come. Instead he watches them limp away, swords drawn and determination on their faces.

Death, he realizes, they are ready to face death.

A shudder runs down his spine.

Of course. All exits are blocked. The orcs are advancing. It is only a matter of time until death finds all of them.

Including a lone hobbit that shouldn't even be there.

He swallows roughly. Fear coils in his stomach, in his chest despair wars with determination. But now that death seems unavoidable he feels himself beginning to calm. Hiding will not help. If the orcs find him later, his fate will not change.

Better meet it head-on. Let come what must come.

He reaches for the ring in his pocket again. His fingers brush the acorn instead. Smooth, untainted and oblivious to the evil around it - Bilbo pulls it from his pocket and his heart aches from the memories. The future was uncertain when he picked it up in Beorn's garden, too. And yet those days seem like a lifetime away; memories from a golden age long passed.

When the dwarves called him friend. When Thorin Oakenshield smiled fondly at him, and the dragon and the Arkenstone were yet a long road away.

But these days are gone.

Maybe one day Thorin will understand. Maybe the goldsickness will leave and the dwarf Bilbo has grown to care for will return and remember.

Yet then Bilbo will long be gone. Not to his home, his armchair and garden, but passed on like so many others already did today. And the little acorn, too, will be lost.

Though - Bilbo eyes a little space at the center of the square where the cobblestones have been torn loose and soils dots the ground. It's grayish soil, not the rich brown earth of the Shire. But maybe the Valar will grant this one exception,

Bilbo hurries over and crouches down. The sounds of battle grow closer - the fighting must be a street away, and yet he is completely alone. Another gust of icy wind brushes past him and cools the sweat on his face. Under his fingers the soil feels ashy and dry; he'd not use it in the Shire.

But the Shire is far away and it is unlikely he will ever see it again.

Bilbo sighs. He misses his garden, the peace of his home. He'd liked to have seen the Party Tree and the rolling hills at least one more time.

Maybe one day a tree will grow here. Maybe Dale will bloom again and maybe Thorin will remember the burglar who would have followed him to the end. A foolish fellow who sought to save when he ought to have known he was but a small person among big people.

Hobbits have no place in the great histories of the world. He should have known.

But maybe there will be a tree at least that remembers him.

He places the acorn into a small hole. Looks down at it and with all good wishes brushes a layer or earth atop it.

May it grow and bloom and thrive even if he will not be there to see it.

***

Thorin has almost forgotten about the mysterious tree by the time he makes it back to his and Bilbo’s shared rooms. Today’s meetings have lasted (as they always do) longer than anticipated and evening is long past. To his surprise, Bilbo is awake, sitting before the fire, a book in his lap.

“Bilbo,” Thorin greets, stripping off his coat in the warmth of their shared chambers, “You’re still up.”

The hobbit shrugs and closes the book with a soft thud. “I couldn’t quite sleep.” He slides from his seat and approaches Thorin, leaning against him.

Thorin wraps his own arms around his hobbit. “Anything the matter?” he inquires, feeling for any hidden tremors. But Bilbo keeps his face pressed against Thorin’s chest and breathes evenly.

“Nothing in particular,” he replies and there is no tension in his back to call his words lies and Thorin allows himself to relax a little, “After Bard left, I just started thinking.”

Thorin frowns to himself. Bard didn’t say anything of particular importance. “The tree?”

Bilbo chuckles. “I didn’t expect it to grow, to be honest. It came as a bit of a surprise.”

***

“Where is he?” Thorin roars, hoarsely, stumbling through the camp as he leans on Dwalin’s shoulder. Dark blood seeps from a hastily wrapped cut on his arm, and his face is pale, but the glint in his eyes undiminished. “Bring me to him! I need to see him!”

“You should rest,” somebody mutters, while another dwarf waves bandages and ointments and insists on “Your injuries need to be dressed, your majesty, please.” Thorin is deaf to their words; has indeed tuned out all but the men of his company since the battle ended. When first he stumbled away from Azog’s corpse (dead, dead, after so many grievous years finally slain), his mind had grown blank, listless.

Then Fili had run up to him and thrown his arms around him and Kili had limped after him and Thorin’s knees had buckled then and there. That he should have defeated Azog. That he should have reclaimed his mountain. That his kin had all survived the battle.

Fortune had never smiled on Thorin Oakenshield before, and he scarcely dared to believe.

With his nephews he’d stumbled his way down from Ravenhill, greeting the familiar faces en route. One by one his company had been found, some hurt, some waving cheerfully. Oin had forced him to stop for a moment, accept a quick treatment. Fili and Kili their healer had spirited to another tent, but Thorin had refused.

One of their company had remained missing.

Until Bofur had burst in and shouted: “They found Bilbo!”

Thorin staggers, but Dwalin easily stabilizes him. “Where is he?” Thorin shouts again, his heart racing. Somebody waves, but he doesn’t catch what is being said, only spies Bofur’s hat bobbing somewhere between the dwarves ahead of them.

Cold sweat covers Thorin’s back, and his body shakes with exhaustion and unease. He needs to see Bilbo, needs to apologize. Needs to make the hobbit understand that the words up on the wall were never him, that he never meant to hurt him.

Needs to see that Bilbo made it through this horrible battle for himself.

“Make way for the King,” somebody ahead of him shouts, and the crowd parts. Torches light the way to a stained tent, and Thorin pushes past the protesting healer. Gandalf is there, bowed over a small form lying motionlessly on a cot. Blood stains the covers, and Thorin’s eyes freeze as they catch a hand hanging limply from the cot.

It’s small, white and blood-spotted.

No, he thinks, no, Bilbo cannot –

“What is he doing here?” Gandalf cries, rising from his position, “I said not to let Thorin Oakenshield enter!” Grey, immortal eyes find Thorin, bore into him with rare grief and anger, “Have you not caused enough harm yet?”

Thorin does not flinch. The madness has passed. “Does he live?” He asks, stepping closer, not bothering to hide his urgency, “Is he well?”

Gandalf attempts to shield Bilbo from view for a moment, before he deflates with a sigh. “Thorin Oakenshield, you should not be here,” he states, and then turns back to look at his charge. Bilbo’s pallor is terrible, barely any darker than the bandages wrapped around his head. “He’s alive and Eru be willing should soon wake.”

Thorin’s knees weaken. “I am glad to hear it,” he manages, before stumbling over to a small chair and sinking down.

Gandalf watches him closely.

“What happened to him?” Thorin asks, “I thought you would protect him.”

Gandalf seems to age before his eyes. “So I hoped,” he sighs, “I do not know the details, but I left Bilbo with a trusted friend in the city, hoping the battle would not reach him there. To my understanding they became surrounded.” He looks to the small, resting form again and Thorin’s eyes follow his gaze.

What might those hours have been like for their hobbit? Thorin knows Bilbo’s valor, Bilbo’s courage – little he did see it initially – but he also knows that Bilbo had never been in battle before. Not like this; and perhaps he should never have been. Gentle creatures are not made for bloodshed and brutality.

Thorin swallows. “He was lucky then,” he quietly states, “To escape.”

Gandalf’s face grows greyer still. “More than you think. Few of those with him made it out and fewer still are likely to survive.”

But Bilbo will, Thorin tells himself and turns back to the sleeping form of his companion, Bilbo will survive and once he wakes Thorin will be able to make amends. And they will have a future, Thorin will see Erebor flourish and Bilbo may plant his acorn and watch it grow.

***

“I planted it,” Bilbo explains, “Back during the battle.” He chuckles, and Thorin’s arms tighten automatically. He tries not to think about that terrible day and how close he had come to losing all he loved. The memory of sitting at Bilbo’s bedside, watching a far too-pale hobbit sleep still haunts him.

“The one acorn I picked up in Beorn’s garden,” Bilbo continues, “I had told you earlier – I wanted to take it home and plant it in Bag End. Probably would have gotten accused of witchcraft if it had grown as fast there. Then again, it might not have made it back.” He burrows a little deeper into Thorin’s chest, soaking up the warmth.

“And now it grows in Dale,” Thorin mutters. He’ll ask Bard to keep a close eye on it. And if he has to pay a guard to be stationed next to it. That tree deserves special attention.

Bilbo chuckles. “Indeed. When I planted it I was wondering whether it would take root at all. The soil there isn’t very good… but we were surrounded and there was no way out, and I was thinking that if I was going to die, I’d at least give the tree a chance.”

Thorin stiffens. Bilbo had planted it during the battle? His blood runs cold, and if his hands clench, Bilbo doesn’t protest. Instead the hobbit tilts his head back to catch Thorin’s eye, and a gentle smile plays on his face.

“I didn’t think I’d see it grow then,” he confesses, “But I like this better. Maybe the men are right – it’s a good omen after all.”

Thorin swallows down the dread. “I hope so.”

Bilbo’s smile widens and he stretches up on tiptoes. “I’m certain.” He presses his lips to Thorin’s, and the King under the Mountain lets himself be convinced.


	45. Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winters in the mountains are not meant for hobbits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: character death! Some blood, lots of angst. This is not a happy fic.

Almost a meter of snow covers the slopes of Erebor before the month is out. There is less, lower, but traveling back to the Shire in these conditions is out of question. Thorin, though still tied to his bed, says as much to Bilbo, who turns away to cough into his sleeve. 

And Thorin's heart breaks, because he understands that after everything Bilbo wishes for nothing more than to go back home. But even though he has suffered so much, he cannot leave but must linger longer in the shadow of the mountain that caused him so much pain. Thorin asks Dain, Dwalin, anyone not bound to their bed, to make sure Bilbo wants for nothing.

Yet when he inquires after the hobbit, his friends sigh. Dain says, "He’s doing as well as should be expected in this situation". But these words, coupled with the sadness in Dwalin's eyes and the shadow across Balin's, tells Thorin that the battle caused great harm to their lucky number. Harm perhaps only the rolling hills of the Shire and the peace of a distant home can heal.

So after he has spoken with Gandalf on political matters, long and in depth, he turns exhausted eyes on the wizard one last time.

"What of Master Baggins?” Thorin inquires hoarsely, "Will you see him home?"

Gandalf looks at him as if he'd suddenly gone mad again. "Home? In the middle of winter? A wizard I may be, but I cannot perform miracles." He huffs to himself. "Don't tell me you will not allow him shelter in your mountain, Thorin Oakenshield. After everything he did for you and your company, it would shame you to -"

Thorin raises a shaking hand to interrupt the angry tirade. "Peace, Gandalf. I thought his home would suit Master Baggins best after all that has happened. Yet if it cannot be done, Erebor will provide all she can for our hero."

Gandalf's face softens. He sinks back on his chair, appeased.

Thorin, however, grows uneasy. The weeks Bilbo spent in the mountain were marred by madness and grief. First a dragon, then a mad King - will the hobbit truly go back to a place of such memories? Would it not be better to find him shelter elsewhere?

But Gandalf speaks no more on the issue, and even though Thranduil extends an offer to Bilbo, by the time the Lake freezes over, Bilbo moves into Erebor with the rest of the company.

***

Thorin is on his own feet, a heavy fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and an even heavier crown set on his head. His knees bend and his muscles shiver, but he walks the warriors that fought for him - to lead them toward their price. They must see what they have achieved, and for that Thorin will push his aching body to its limit.

Oin shadows him and Dwalin hovers. Balin keeps a respectful distance, but he and Dori seem the only ones concerned with protocol. Dain follows them, accompanying Kili and Fili. The three laugh loudly, swap exaggerated stories and lighten the mood. Behind them, the onlooking dwarves break into chuckles and cheerful chatter accompanies them all the way to the mountain.

Only once Thorin catches a glimpse of Bilbo. Pale and lean and solemn, and even Bofur's jokes produce merely a tired smile. 

He's not well, Thorin thinks and his own heart falls. But what had he expected?

The first weeks in Erebor are madness and chaos and work, work, work. So many decisions Thorin has to make, and it seems for each task he delegates, ten new crop up. There are missives to be written, communications to be cared for - it wouldn't do to offend the steward of Gondor by delegating his letter to anybody - dwarves to be settled, mines to be assessed. Gold has to be counted, treasures made safe, broken halls repaired and plumbing restored.

Soon, even Thorin's dreams are occupied by tasks and obligations, and he doesn't know if he sleeps at all.

During one of these evenings, there comes a knock on the door. It's not one of the urgent, decisive knocks that announce more work, but a hesitant sound that attracts Thorin's curiosity. "Come in," he calls, for as late as the hour is, he is far from sleeping.

Oin pushes the door open, and his eyes immediately seek out the shadows underneath Thorin's. "You look terrible," he says by the way of greeting, "when have you last slept?"

"I will turn in soon," Thorin evades, "what brings you here?"

Oin sighs and Thorin can see him gauging the situation. He rarely has known Oin to be indecisive, so his curiosity grows further. But also unease rises - what if these news are ill?

"Have you spoken to Bilbo lately?" Oin inquires.

Thorin has not spoken to Bilbo since he stammered a delirious apology back in his tent. He wished to, but there had never been an opportunity, so he shakes his head.

Oin grimaces. "Perhaps I shouldn't bother you about it, but I think the lad's been a bit lonely. Only hobbit among dwarves and all that."

Thorin nods. If possible, he'll make time for Bilbo tomorrow. "Did anything happen?"

"Aye," Oin deflates, having decided to tell Thorin, "Nori found him collapsed in one of the stairwells earlier. Lad said he'd been a bit dizzy - has caught a cold like he did in Laketown - and apparently just passed out."

"Did he hurt himself?" Thorin asks, his heart speeding up. Before his eyes he can see a small figure climbing a dimly lit staircase on their own, and then suddenly faltering and falling. And nobody is there to stop their fall.

"Some bruises," Oin shrugs, "they'll heal in a fortnight. But I think he shouldn't be on his own quite so much."

Thorin nods decisively. He pushes aside the documents - he won't be able to focus on them now, anyway - and rises. His joints crack from having spent such a long time in one position, and he feels the fatigue in his bones. His mind, however, is wide awake.

"What about that cold?" Thorin asks as he shrugs in his overcoat, "is it worse than the one he caught in Laketown?" The deep, rattling coughs had unsettled him. He'd known these ailments plagued men, known they could be healed, but with the little they know about hobbits...

Oin falls into step besides him easily. "About the same, I suppose."

 ***

Thorin contemplates that the hour is far too late to visit while marching through empty corridors. Who, he wonders, decided to give Bilbo chambers so far from the royal apartments? Those rooms are spacious enough, especially since Thorin has barely set foot in them.

His ribs smart, reminding him of the healing wounds on his body. By now the stab wound is but a large, angry scar – still prone to bleeding – but the tissue underneath has healed. It brings little joy to Thorin to think he has been improving, while the lucky number of his company has deteriorated in silence.

He raps sharply at the nondescript wooden door, his mind incessantly listing his failings. Never has he visited Bilbo here before, never looked at how bleak these rooms must seem to a hobbit used to bright colors. How could he have authorized the room assignment and not seen? Had his mind still been so muddled?

“Yes?” Bilbo’s voice comes, hoarse and stuffy, but awake, and Thorin breathes a sigh in relief.

“Can I come in?” Thorin asks, hand already reaching for the doorknob.

He hears footsteps approaching, and then the key is turned. The door swings open, allowing Thorin to gaze into warmly lit reception room. It’s not very large, though its furniture appears comfortable and a fire flickers merrily inside the fireplace. The dancing orange light cannot quite hide the terrible pallor of Bilbo’s face.

“Come in, come in,” the hobbit rasps, turning his face aside to muffle a series of small coughs, “Do you want tea?”

Thorin enters silently, feeling sweat break out on his skin. The rooms are warm, hot even, and still he spies a blanket on one of the armchairs.

“I’m afraid this is not a great time for a visit,” Bilbo’s voice carries over from a kitchenette, “I’d actually tell you to stay away, but you dwarves don’t catch colds, do you?”

“No, we don’t,” Thorin replies, as Bilbo coughs again. Deeper this time, and perhaps it is a shadow, but Thorin thinks he grows paler, still.

“Let me do this,” Thorin says and walks into the small kitchenette. He lays a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and gently turns him around, studying the dark bruises under Bilbo’s eyes and the way he can feel the hobbit’s collarbone through fabric and skin.

Thorin’s heart aches and he carefully steers Bilbo back toward his armchair. “Sit down, I will get my own tea,” he announces with a small smile.

Bilbo doesn’t protest and that perhaps is more worrying than anything.

It might be winter, might be exhaustion. Might be the shock of the battle lingering, the cold or the lack of fresh air and wide skies.

By the time Thorin emerges with two steaming mugs, Bilbo has burrowed back into his blanket despite the heat of the room. Thorin sets down a mug before him. “Has Oin given you something?”

Bilbo blinks, shakes his head. “No, it’s just a cold.”

Thorin frowns. Instead of sitting down, he leans over and presses his hand to Bilbo’s forehead. The heat is frightening, and Bilbo sinks against him with a little sigh.

“You’re running a fever,” Thorin observes, “You should be in bed.”

“I know,” Bilbo mutters almost petulantly, and visibly forces himself to draw back from Thorin’s touch. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept turning and turning, and nothing seemed comfortable – I’m sure you know how that is.”

Thorin is more familiar with his mind unable to stop working, but concedes the point.

“So what have you been doing lately?” Bilbo inquires, leaning back in his armchair, “I see much work is being done to clean the entry hall, and everybody I meet tells me you are working like a man possessed.” He smiles warmly.

Thorin settles himself on the chair’s armrest. There is a perfectly usable second armchair on the other side of the small table, but to Thorin it seems to be a world away. Here he can brush his hand subtly against Bilbo’s, notice it shivering. With a shake of his head, Thorin strips off his large fur coat.

“This and that,” he tells Bilbo, while draping his coat over the hobbit, observing how the garment easily envelopes him entirely, “Mostly signing documents and writing letters. We have had inquires come from everywhere – many kingdoms are interested in opening trade with Erebor once spring comes.”

Bilbo doesn’t protest the second layer; rather he burrows into it, relaxing. “That is good, I suppose. It will help the mountain prosper.”

“I should hope so,” Thorin replies, “We have much to before. If we hope to trade, we must stabilize the mines and hire miners and metalworkers. Erebor still retains quite a number of crafted wares that were forged before the dragon came, but they have to be assessed before they can be sold.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Bilbo mumbles. His eyes, when Thorin glances over, have closed and his breathing has evened out. Good, thinks Thorin, he needs the rest.

He reaches out before he quite knows what he’s doing and brushes a hand through Bilbo’s hair. The locks feel soft and light, and a part of Thorin contemplates how they would curl around beads. He’d like to braid it – one braid to show Bilbo is a friend to all dwarves, and maybe another. Another to show each and all that to Thorin Bilbo is very special.

It’s a bit of a ridiculous notion, but it makes Thorin smile nonetheless. He’ll look into forging beads once he finds the time. Maybe Bilbo will agree to wear them for one of the festivals in winter.

Thorin is about to rise, when Bilbo makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. It repeats, and this time Bilbo’s entire body jerks forward. Thorin freezes, hand stretched out uselessly –

And Bilbo breaks into terribly coughing fit. His entire chest rattles; he hunches forward, hands flying up to press against his mouth. The coughs sound deep, and then wet, and fear spreads through Thorin.

He grasps Bilbo’s shoulder, just in time to stop him from toppling off the chair, while Bilbo’s face grows red. The hobbit scrunches his eyes shut, tears leaking out as he fights to stop coughing, to just breathe.

And then something wet and dark splatters on the ground before him, and Bilbo can breathe again.

He slumps forward, gasping for breath, sweat-soaked. His hands sink down, trembling – and Thorin finds the same dark flecks on them as on the ground.

Stark white, Bilbo now looks up, and Thorin sees his own horrified realization reflected in Bilbo’s eyes. He’s coughing up blood.

“We need to get Oin,” Thorin hisses, forcing his panic down. Their healer will know what to do, Oin always has some idea, some ointment or tonic, and Thorin clings to that idea. Bilbo looks at Thorin with the same desperate hope in his eyes, but before they flutter shut Thorin catches sight of the fear underneath.

Thorin surges forward, catching the light body before it can even fall out of the chair. Bilbo’s body rests against him like a limp doll, and Thorin has to listen to him breathe for a moment to ward off the terror. Small, shallow sounds and they make the hair on the back of Thorin’s neck stand. He bites down on his lip, puts one arm underneath Bilbo’s knees and stands.

Bilbo’s doesn’t protest, remains deeply unconscious, and all Thorin can think of is that this shouldn’t be happening.

He all but runs the way to Oin.

***

Bilbo’s return to consciousness is accompanied by a heavy sense of fatigue. His eyelids stick together, it takes effort to open them; his joints ache and breathing is utterly laborious.

“Bilbo?” somebody asks.

He groans, intent on turning over and sleeping on, but finds himself held in place by preposterously heavy blankets. They are a little too warm, he thinks as his body wakes up, bit by bit, and he senses the sweat covering his back and front.

Something presses down on his hand and he belatedly realizes Thorin’s fingers are interwoven with his own. Warmth floods through him and an ache in his chest unwinds; it has been long since someone held his hand, long since such an innocent, intimate gesture was extended to him, and Bilbo feels his eyes water.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks again, “Are you well?”

Bilbo forces his eyes to open. Even the dim light hurts at first, and it takes him a moment to focus on Thorin. The dwarf is dressed in plain clothes; so different from the regal coat Bilbo has seen him wear lately.

“You’re here,” Bilbo murmurs, tongue numb and sluggish, “Shouldn’t you … rule?”

The corners of Thorin’s mouth move a little. “Balin and Fili have taken over. It is … good practice.”

Bilbo blinks. “And you … are here?”

“There is no other place I would be,” Thorin says reverently, “I have been remiss in my attentions to you lately, and I would change that.”

A chuckle that turns into a dry cough forces its way from Bilbo’s throat. “I’m afraid,” he rasps when he can breathe again, “I’m not very good company.”

Thorin, pale and concerned, shakes his head. “I would not leave you now.”

Bilbo shuffles around until he can sit up a little. More, he finds, he is not capable of. These last weeks have drained his strength completely, and the cold has rendered him utterly useless.

“Shouldn’t Oin be here?” he asks, because even if Thorin is leaving Erebor to Fili and Balin, he should take a well-deserved break. Not look after sick, incoherent hobbits.

“He’s in Dale. He and Ori went to find a healer,” Thorin says and brushes a hand over Bilbo’s hair, “They will return soon. Rest a little longer. When they return, I am certain they have something for you.”

***

Thorin doesn’t catch what Bilbo mumbles in response, but he sees the hobbit’s eyes drift shut again. The slender body relaxes, and Thorin traces the outlines under the blankets. Bilbo always seems larger when awake.

It had been a shock to discover just how small and light he had grown the day before. Frightening to watch him sleep quietly and twist and turn in the throes of a high fever that Oin had not known how to cure. Now, at least, the fever has abated, though it is not gone.

And neither is the cough.

Hopefully, Oin and Ori will find a good healer in Dale.

***

The healer settles down across from Thorin and Gloin with a solemn expression. She is elderly, but her eyes are clear and sharp – and undaunted by the presence of the King under the Mountain.

“Allow me to speak plainly,” she begins and takes Thorin’s minuscule nod for permission, “I do not know anything about hobbits. Anything I say from now on may be completely and utterly false.”

Thorin nods. Oin has said as much to him earlier, and it had been a concern of Dain’s healers, too, when they had looked after Thorin’s company. They have no idea what may help and what may kill, and for that reason alone Erebor is a danger to Bilbo.

“This is, as you have perhaps guessed already, no common cold,” the healer is saying, “But there is, among men, a sickness that develops when a cold sinks deeper into the lungs. It turns the coughing much more violent, causes fever, fatigue and a loss of appetite. In the later stages it also brings up bloody phlegm.”

Dread fills Thorin’s chest. Later stages –

“What follows?” Oin is asking.

“Delirium and death.”

Thorin’s heart stops. He can’t lose Bilbo, cannot allow him to pass. Not when Bilbo must live, must return to his own home. Not when he has a future to look forward to.

“What can we do to stop it?” Oin asks, his voice even, though Thorin sees the concern on his brow. It pales against the panicked storm raging inside Thorin himself.

She sighs. “There is no medicine or tonic or anything. And among men, very few survive once they have begun coughing up blood.”

“Those that survive,” Oin inquires, “What did they do?”

She sighs. “As far as I know – kept warm, rested a lot, drank tea and got fresh air. Some ate fruit if they were available, but I do not know if those contributed.”

Oin nods. “Thank you.”

For the first time, she directs a smile toward them. It is filled with regret and empathy. “I wish you the best.”

***

So they try. They ply Bilbo with tea and Thorin buys fruit from Dale and further south, and once a day Bilbo is wrapped in blankets and cloaks and shuffled outside to catch some sun and fresh air. Maybe it helps, for he regains a little color and those few moments Thorin sees him awake, Bilbo smiles at him.

“It’s nice, being outside,” he tells Thorin, “The world here is so different from the Shire. We rarely see so much snow and on somedays it seems that world only consists of white and grey.”

Thorin nods, wrapping a companionable arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “This part of the world sees very harsh winters. But the mountain is always warm.”

Bilbo nods, eyelids already drooping. “It feels unreal, I think. Almost a little like magic…”

He coughs, just a small noise, but enough to make his entire body quiver. Thorin holds him closer – and sees the thin red line running from Bilbo’s mouth. His heart shatters.

***

Once winter settles in truly, they can no longer take Bilbo outside. The icy air burns his lungs and causes him cough violently. By now, they have all become used to the presence of blood, and Bilbo continues to lose energy.

Thorin pens letters. To Elrond, to Radagast, to Saruman and Galadriel. To Gandalf, because he was the one who plucked Bilbo from his home. He was the one who chose Bilbo to be the fourteenth member, the one who brought Bilbo east and so far from his home. The wizard should be here to help him, if he truly is as good a friend to Bilbo as he claims.

But winter lingers on, and few letters arrive. Those that do, offer no healing.

And so comes the moment when a runner fetches Thorin telling him to come, now, and he knows what must pass.

***

Thorin arrives out of breath to the large, comfortable chamber (the one they relocated Bilbo to after he took sick. Too little, too late). Many of the company are already there, faces grim and grave, but the spot right next to Bilbo’s bed remains empty and Thorin crosses the floor in three long steps. He sinks to his knees next to the bed and reaches for Bilbo’s hand.

In the long weeks since he first fell ill, Bilbo lost much weight. His hand now is a bony, fragile thing that Thorin grasps with tender reverence, afraid to cause damage. Weakly, bloodless fingers curl around his own, and Thorin looks up to find Bilbo looking at him, his features soft.

“Thorin,” he whispers (it has been weeks since he could speak at full volume. Now he never will again), “You are here.”

Thorin glances to Oin, who stands back against the wall, shaking his head. “We are all here,” he tells Bilbo, “We will not leave you.”

Bilbo smiles at him, warm and painful and Thorin feels his heart breaking. There will be no recovery from this. No dragon that can be slain, no home that can be reclaimed. Once Bilbo is gone – Thorin tightens his grip.

“Please, hold on,” he whispers, not caring that his grief is plain for all to hear, “Please do not leave me.”

“I would have stayed, Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, “Everybody, I would have stayed with you all. I wanted … I wanted to return to Bag End, see the Shire again … settle my affairs there and then come here. … I … thank you for giving me a home here… I wish I could have shared it longer with you … wish I could have seen it in restored glory.”

He chokes, no longer strong enough to cough, and dark red dribbles from his lips. Thorin reaches out, wipes the blood away with a fur-covered sleeve. His fingers linger on the soft skin of Bilbo’s cheeks.

“Then please…” his voice breaks.

“Thank you,” Bilbo murmurs, “Thank you for having me. For bringing me here. … I am glad to have traveled with you… to have been able to help. And I wish … you all the luck in the world.”

A choked sob echoes through the room, and Thorin just notices Bofur crumbling from the corner of his eye. But he blocks them all out, ignores everyone but Bilbo. The hobbit’s eyes have come to him again, and the light in them dims already.

“No-“

“Goodbye.”

And with one last, soft exhale, Bilbo’s body grows slack. Thorin surges forward, presses down on that hand in his to a degree that must be painful. “No, no, no!” he cries, “No, Bilbo. Just, no! Hold on, please. Just a little longer, please. Gandalf will come, and he will –“

A heavy hand settles on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Balin says, his head bowed.

“The Valar be willing,” Dori offers solemnly, “We will meet again one day. Fare you well, Master Baggins.”

***

Nobody ever quite speaks about how long Thorin sat, cradling the dead body of his former burglar. Nobody speaks of the could-have-beens. Of the things Thorin himself only began to realize he lost.

Of the things that now lie forever out of his reach.

That Bilbo Baggins had been his One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to haunt my [tumblr](www.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com), so that the next one may have a happier ending.


	46. Spider Venom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While fighting the spiders, Bilbo gets injured. Nobody realizes it until it's much too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: Bilbo dies!  
> And: thanks to [striving-artist](www.striving-artist.tumblr.com) for the beta!

A soft thud draws Thorin from his dark thoughts. He surges forward, instantly alert, eyes searching the dim light outside of his cell for any trace of movement. There, he thinks, spying the small, crumbled shape resting against the bars, Bilbo.

His heart thunders, both hope and dread spread in his chest. Because Bilbo being here means news of his companions, or perhaps an escape. But something about this is terribly off, and I'll foreboding turns Thorin's blood cold.

"Bilbo?" He hisses, not daring to speak louder for the fear of having the elven guards overhear them, "Bilbo?"

The form does not stir, and now Thorin recognizes the odd angle at which Bilbo lies: not in any position one would voluntarily sit, but having obviously fallen. His legs point away from the cell, splayed as if they just gave out. Bilbo's face presses against the bars, but tilted downward and matted curls obscure his expression.

With trepidation Thorin reaches out, shoving one arm through the bars of his cell and reaches for Bilbo's hand. His fingers touch hot, clammy skin and he realizes Bilbo is running a high fever even before he feels the racing pulse under papery skin. When he tightens his grip he can feel the bones shift, and their hobbit was not this thin before. Certainly not -

Thorin bites down on his lip, cursing himself for having missed the signs, having blamed Bilbo's pallor on the strange light, the shadows under his eyes on the lingering ills of Mirkwood.

"Mhh, Thorin?" Bilbo watches him from barely-open eyes, his voice a hushed mumble, "What are you doing here?"

Thorin forces down the growing fear. "Bilbo," he whispers intently, "Bilbo, you need to wake up."

The hobbit groans and shifts weakly. "Where am I?" He remains where he has fallen, unwilling or unable to move beyond tilting his face up a little.

Thorin bites his lip, and reaches out with his other hand to press his palm against Bilbo's forehead. It, too, is hot, and with a fever this high Bilbo should be resting, not trying to save them. Thorin curses Thranduil once more.

"You are in Mirkwood," he tells Bilbo as calmly as he can, "The elves captured us. Do you remember?"

Bilbo blinks. "Oh, ... yes. This is... the others are ... I need to find a way to free you..." He struggles to get up, but this time Thorin tightens his grip and forces Bilbo to remain on the ground. It takes frighteningly little effort.

"Yes, yes, we are relying on you for that," Thorin says, "But there is no need to hurry," he lies, "You need to recover first."

His words don't quite seem to settle with Bilbo, so Thorin continues. "You need to go and find food. Get some sleep. Come back to us when you're rested." He can only pray whatever has befallen Bilbo will heal on its own. Without supplies, even Oin cannot help.

"Rest," Bilbo echoes, "yes..."

And with that, his entire body grows limp in Thorin's grasp. He can still feel the pulse flutter frantically under his fingers, but Bilbo doesn't stir. Not when Thorin calls his name, not when he squeezes the soft flesh of his shoulder.

Thorin curses silently.

The elves will discover Bilbo when they return. Find him and imprison him, and then they will completely out of options and -

A tremor runs through Bilbo's body. Shivering despite the heat burning him, and Thorin's grip on Bilbo's shoulder slips. He finds the jacket there wet and sticky, and in any other circumstance Thorin would have dismissed it as stains from hiding in the elven kingdom. But he's too often fought to hold the innards of dying comrades inside, too often wiped blood from his own face to not immediately recognize the texture.

This time Thorin curses out loud.

In the dim light he can't quite make out the color, and the bars are in his way, but he manages to peel the worn jacket from Bilbo's shoulder. And where its color hid the growing bloodstain, his vest and shirt do not. The fabric there has grown a dark brown, the skin underneath radiates heat, and Thorin catches the faint whiff of rot.

No longer caring to be quiet, he rips the fabric.

And finds the smooth skin of Bilbo's shoulder marred by a long, deep cut that has begun to heal at the edges - while the deepest part has turned greenish black and oozes watery blood. Thorin's heart skips a beat. He traces the skin next to it; tight and hot, the veins pronounced and pounding and it's no wonder Bilbo collapsed.

Not just rot, Thorin thinks as he brings a finger of watery blood to his nose and grows aware of the sweet, stomach-turning tang to it, poison.

Against the bars, a shiver wrecks Bilbo's still form, and Thorin has to tighten his grip, feel the way fabric, skin and bone shift under his fingers. Cold fear courses through him, and while there is a part of him desperately trying to cling onto normality - he will wake up and Bilbo will be well and they will escape and this is but a nightmare - he knows what decision he must make.

"Guards! Guards!" Thorin shouts and when the elves come running, he takes one long look at Bilbo's shadowed face. A terrible pall seems to lie upon it; Thorin forces his racing heart to still.

The elves will know how to help.

***

With a wave of his hand Thranduil gestures at his healers to continue their work as he glides into the room. Laid upon a bed that seems giant in comparison, is a strange, small creature - he was found in the dungeon, his guards tell him, collapsed before the cell of Thorin Oakenshield with the King under the Mountain himself demanding he be aided.

A halfling makes for a most curious infiltrator, though his presence accounts for the bits and pieces of food gone missing over the recent days. If he truly belongs to Oakenshield's company, he may also explain the exiled King's reluctance to strike a deal. Though now, Thranduil thinks as he studies the creature's terrible pallor, the tables have turned once again.

"What ails him?" he inquires of the three healers. A lack of food and sunlight, this he can ascertain with one glance. Perhaps there are more injuries he cannot see from where he stands - for only the most dire lack of food would result in the presence of death Thranduil feels lingering in the room.

"Spider venom, my lord," the head healer says with a sigh, "We cannot save him."

Thranduil halts, momentarily taken aback. Spider venom has not taken anyone in his kingdom for a century at the least. Elves know how to treat these injuries; know to get help in time.

"The injury has been left untreated too long," the healer adds and her colleague peels back a compress to reveal an injury to the halfling's shoulder. The wound itself must have been bled out long ago; the flesh has gone white and black and green at the edges, and the veins running away from it are purple.

Thranduil frowns. This is not an injury that should be fatal, but once the spider venom has spread, it is near impossible to stop. His healers have pulled back patients from the brink before, yet these were elves and not hobbits. And the dwarves have proven themselves little affected by the spider venom except for a lingering dizziness.

It seems the spider’s venom is fatal only to hobbits.

"How long does he have?" he asks.

***

Thorin frowns at his feet as he trudges up the stairs, his hands chained before him. Ever since the guards carried Bilbo away from Thorin's cell, there has been no word on the hobbit's condition. The guards had not spoken, and the worry in Thorin's heart has grown to near unbearable dimensions.

"My lord Thranduil, we have brought the prisoner," one of the elves says and draws Thorin from his thoughts. They have arrived on the platform before Thranduil's throne, where the King reclines, studying Thorin with curious eyes.

The guards take a step back and leave Thorin exposed.

"What is it?" Thorin growls, his hackles rising. He dislikes Thranduil's purposely relaxed posture; the easy disdain with which the elven King eyes him.

"Your halfling," Thranduil says, and Thorin's heart jumps, "Are you not curious as to what has become of him?"

A terrible premonition assaults Thorin and he flings himself forward. "If I find you have hurt but one hair, I will not stop haunting you until -"

"Peace, dwarf," Thranduil interrupts coldly and rises, "There is nothing I could have done to him that you have not done already."

"What do you mean?"

"He is dying, Thorin, son of Thrain, dying because a wound he suffered in defense of you was left untreated for too long," Thranduil declares with surprising viciousness.

Thorin cannot stop himself from flinching. "What do you mean?" he bellows, "Why are you not healing him? Would you condemn an innocent creature to death to satisfy your petty disdain for my kin?"

His blood surges. Of course Thranduil would deny Bilbo this grace. Of course he would leave him to die. "Was it not enough when you watched my kin struggle to survive after the dragon? How many more innocents must die until you are satisfied? How many -"

"Silence!" Thranduil shouts, "The halfling's death is no one's fault, but yours! Did you pressure him to free you? Did you tell him to seek help only after he achieved that? Have you but spared one thought for his wellbeing?"

Thorin grinds his teeth. More than one thought, he thinks, but recalling Bilbo's still form -

"The creature that was brought to my healers is wounded and plainly starving," Thranduil says and drives the spike deeper, "Tell me, Thorin, son of Thrain, why did you not call for aid on his behalf sooner if he truly mattered to you?"

Thorin staggers. "Because I did not know," he bites out. He would have pleaded to Thranduil on Bilbo's behalf, would have begged on his knees, "Your obsession with keeping me chained in your dungeons stopped me from seeing his true condition. Had you not forced this need for secrecy on me, I would have seen to him long ago!"

"You would put blame on -" Thranduil begins, but this time Thorin interrupts him with a shake of his head. His blood has calmed, and he knows what he needs to do.

"We can settle this later," he says calmly, "But if your heart has not yet turned to stone completely, I ask you to let me see him. So that at least he may pass among friends."

***

When two solemn-faced guards unlock the door of his cell, Balin knows that something ill has occurred. He doubts Thorin made a trade - they have not been here nearly long enough for his King's stubbornness to waver - but as the guards bring the company together and lead them into another wing of the palace, the sense of dread only grows.

Neither Thorin, nor Thranduil appear, and their wardens are silent and earnest. The light around them grows golden, the air warmer, and a soft smell of fresh herbs permeates the air. Quiet singing echoes along the winding branches and Balin's soul grows heavy.

None of them are injured and Thranduil would not bring them here unless in utmost need. Whatever awaits, it cannot be good.

Balin sees his thoughts mirrored in Oin's face. Fili, Kili and Ori are too busy marveling at the place; Gloin and Dwalin watch their guards closely. They are all uneasy, and no explanation is given until between two twirling roots a door to another chamber opens and they find themselves in a large oval room with one bed at its center.

Seated upon the bed, with a small figure curled up against him, is Thorin.

***

Thorin sighs as he hears his company gasp, but does not look up. Bilbo holds his gaze, eyes glazed and unfocused. When he first woke, he could barely recall where he was and Thranduil had explained the poison was likely twisting his memories.

But while Bilbo had flinched at Thranduil's words, he does not recoil from Thorin.

Thorin only wishes the trust put into him was deserved. He wishes he could save Bilbo, could do more than hold him while the venom works its course.

"Uncle," Kili exclaims and steps forward hesitantly, "What is going on? What happened to Bilbo?"

Bofur follows and takes a look at the hobbit. "He looks terrible," and with that he turns to Thranduil, "Did you do anything to him? Why haven't you healed him? You're elves, aren't you?"

"Even elves cannot heal every ailment, master dwarf," Thranduil returns frostily.

"What do you mean?" Fili shouts as the company erupts into noise. Bilbo shivers in Thorin's arms, and while Thranduil explains the situation, Thorin lowers his head so far his lips almost brush Bilbo's forehead.

"Do not worry," he tells Bilbo quietly, "Your friends have arrived. You remember the dwarves that came to visit you? We are all here now."

Bilbo blinks. "Gandalf..."

"He is not here," Thorin says, wondering why the wizard always disappears when he is needed most. Perhaps he would have known how to save Bilbo. "I'm sorry."

"But you are," Bilbo replies and the corners of his mouth lift a little. "That is nice..."

Thorin's grip tightens as if he could keep Bilbo with him by strength alone.

"No!" Fili explodes in the background, "First you imprison us for trespassing on your lands, thereby forcing our friend into secrecy, then you claim the injuries he sustained are not your fault! Was he not injured in your lands? Injured by those creatures you allow to trespass where you would forbid a harmless traveler to tread? Now you seek to blame his death on us when he would have never gotten hurt had you had a care for those spiders, and not a grudge against all dwarves!"

"Fili," Balin reprimands, and Thorin hears somebody suck in a sharp breath.

"I will not -" Thranduil begins

"It is your -" Fili shouts.

Bilbo shudders, and Thorin purses his lips. "Fili," he calls quietly and his nephew deflates. "Come here," he says to his companions, "There is time later." To deal with Thranduil, the elves, the aftermath of this situation. For now these last moments Bilbo has must count.

Kili bounces onto the mattress with forced cheer, "Nice bed," he comments and directs a smile so bright toward Bilbo, it covers the tears in his eyes .

The hobbit forces himself to blink. "Kili..."

Bofur takes one of Bilbo's hands with a familiarity Thorin has always envied. Bilbo's attention is drawn to him, and recognition lights his eyes.

"Now, Bilbo," Bofur begins lightly, "I don't know where hobbits are supposed to go, but once you get there, ask them to direct you to Mahal's Halls, I'm sure there's a place for you there - you're as good as a dwarf now, anyway."

The company chimes in their agreement.

"You're hair has grown long enough to braid it," Gloin adds, everybody chuckles, and Thorin thinks that they will braid Bilbo's hair before they send him off.

"And if anybody wonders, just look for my old mam - she's about as wide as Bombur, you won't miss her, and she'll get you in, no questions asked," Bofur continues cheerful, though Thorin sees his eyes growing red.

"They will let you in," Thorin adds, and the pain in his chest lessens a little when a faint smile begins to form on Bilbo's face, "And they will adore you."

His mother, his grandmother, his brother, and the grandfather he remembers from the days before his mind grew clouded; they all would have loved the hobbit. When he goes to the halls, he will pray for them to welcome Bilbo as family would.

"...that is nice..." Bilbo murmurs, his eyelids drooping, "And when the time comes ... I will see you again?"

Somebody sobs, but Thorin keeps his eyes on Bilbo's. "Yes," he says, his voice one of many in that moment, "Yes, when the time comes we all will return to Mahal's Halls and wait there with you until the world is made anew."

Bilbo's eyes close. "Then... until we meet again..." His breathing grows quieter. There is still a pulse, but the body in Thorin's arms grows limp and the heartbeat slows. Yet the smile on his lips remains and it tears Thorin's heart into pieces.

"Until we meet again," Balin announces solemnly.

As one, the dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's company bow their heads. Some wipe tears from their eyes, others do not bother. Thorin himself closes his eyes, forces back the tears and the pain, and with a silent prayer bends down to place a gentle kiss on Bilbo's forehead.

Bilbo Baggins, their lucky number, has passed on.

***

In the aftermath, Thranduil allows them to leave. He does not care for their recriminations, but neither does he care to stop them. Thorin Oakenshield, it seems, however, has grown cold. He agreed to the initial trade without any emotion, and has since turned his attention onto Erebor with a single-minded determination. The determination of one marching to his own death,

To preserve the body of Bilbo Baggins until the Lonely Mountain is reclaimed, that had been Thorin’s only request in return.

If it is not, Thranduil had asked, if your quest failed.

Then return him to his kin in the west, Thorin had answered, his eyes looking elsewhere.

***

In the end, the story twists once more. Thorin reclaims his mountain and Smaug falls, but an army led by Azog himself advances on Erebor. When Thranduil arrives, it is to the dwarves fighting like possessed.

As if they were seeking death.

When morning dawns, some have found it.

The toymaker that accused Thranduil of lacking in his care. The company's healer and the one Thranduil knows nicked a dagger from his guards.

And Thorin Oakenshield himself passes on with a smile and a familiar name on his lips, whispering a greeting in the moment when his soul crosses over.

  _Fin_


	47. To the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has decided to remain in Erebor and finds himself happy there. His relationship with Thorin is great, though he knows that it's unlikely anything will ever come of that longing for more in his heart. However, things come differently.
> 
> A political match is proposed for Thorin. And as Bilbo finds out yet another ill piece of news, he realizes he must leave Erebor (likely forever).
> 
> (Warnings: angst, dark thoughts, but a happy ending)

_Thorin,_

_forgive me for leaving without a word. By the time this has been discovered, I will be far from Erebor, and I ask you do not come after me. Do not try to find me. If I can, I will return, but I fear it may not be possible._

_I would have loved to stay. I know you had doubts about my wellbeing in Erebor, I know about your conversations with Oin and Gandalf, and yes, maybe hobbits do not fare so well in mountains. But you have always been so lovely to me, and I guess there was just no helping it._

_You see, somewhere along the way I have fallen in love with you, Thorin._

_And I know it's highly unfortunate, what with your engagement and being the King, and maybe it's better like this. But allow me this instance of selfishness, allow me to at least tell you. I have loved you for a while now, and I will likely love you until the end of my life. If I could ask you one favor, then please remember me every once in awhile. There aren't many others who will do, I think._

_Well, now I'm blubbering again. Not very befitting for a hobbit, much less one of my age. Don't read too much into it, it is nearly time for me to leave and I am getting maudlin. Allow me to end this by wishing you the best for your upcoming marriage, and know that I wish this for you from the depth of my heart._

_Thorin, son of Thrain, may your beard grow ever longer, may your kingdom prosper and may your kin thrive. I wish you all the happiness in the world and then some, and please tell the others I do wish the same for them. I do not have time to write more letters, but let them know I enjoyed their company and hope they may remember me fondly._

_All the best,_

_Bilbo Baggins_

***

After the battle, there is much to do. Thorin, Fili, and Kili recover, while everybody else gets swept up in work. Even Bilbo has rarely a moment to breathe, and before he knows it summer has come and gone.

“You can, of course,” Thorin tells him on one rare winter evening that they sit quietly in Thorin’s office, mountains of documents piled before them, “Return to the Shire whenever you wish. I will arrange for an escort, and you should not lack for anything.”

Bilbo looks up with a small smile. “I know.” Thorin has offered before - repeated it, ever since he realized Bilbo missed his chance to return home and Gandalf send word he’d been declared dead. It had taken quite some letters, gold, and an emissary from the Blue Mountains to sort out that affair.

“Though,” and here Thorin’s voice softens with a hint of hope, “If you want to stay, you are more than welcome.”

***

Bilbo stays, Erebor grows and prospers, and that tentative thing in Bilbo’s chest does the same. It’s nothing he expected to feel ever, much less after his fifties birthday. But the colors seem brighter, the air smells sweeter, and while he does not know if Thorin feels the same, he at least seems to enjoy Bilbo’s company.

And so things seem to grow better and brighter, even though disturbing news reach them from the south. But it’s far away and Erebor is safe and wealthy and nothing should harm them.

***

"She's an Ironfist princess," Bilbo hears Lord Uydur comment, "Quite a lucky arrangement for our King."

Bilbo freezes. A wide pillar hides him from view, though his pounding heart ought to give him away. Thorin, getting married? How has he not known this before? (How has he failed to anticipate this?)

The second dwarf chuckles in agreement. "The Ironfists are notoriously shut-in. Once this is announced, there will be an uproar."

Lord Uydur hums, "Oh, there will be. This is the first time the Ironfists allowed for a marriage to an outside in a thousand years."

Cotton fills Bilbo's ears. He does not hear the rest of the conversation, barely knows he has turned and is stumbling back toward his own rooms. Around him, the world seems to be falling apart, as his heart cracks.

Blindly, he fumbles for his magic ring (even though he’s not needed it in years, he does always carry it in his pocket). Slips it on, watches the world blur, because he cannot face it right now. Cannot allow anybody to see the horror on his own face.

Maybe it’s just a rumor, he tells himself. Maybe.

***

And then Princess Mari arrives in Erebor. She is beautiful, intelligent, surprisingly cheerful, and a wonderful match for Thorin. Bilbo can’t quite begrudge her the engagement, even as the pain in his heart grows and grows and grows.

The time he spends with Thorin lessens.

But perhaps that is natural. While a political match, Thorin and his finance must get to know each other. They do appear to get along fine, and Mari easily fits in with the company. She makes sure to get along with Bilbo, too.

“Oh, you must be the legendary burglar,” she had said upon their first meeting, “You must tell me everything.”

And Bilbo may not have told her everything, but they have talked a lot. He knows she enjoys travel, would have liked to see the world. This arranged marriage, she even confesses, is the only option she ever had to travel.

So Bilbo in turn tells her what he has seen, and offers her to visit the Shire.

His heart breaks. But he can’t hate her, and he could never hate Thorin, so he hides the tears in the darkness of his rooms and tells himself to smile during the day. It could all be so much worse, he tells himself. They are alive, and Thorin’s finance is nice.

Really, this is probably the best he could ever have hoped for.

But that doesn’t lessen the pain.

***

In late spring Bilbo Baggins disappears from Erebor.

Despite the uproar, no trace of him is found. Search missions from Erebor and Dale scout the lands all the way to the Misty Mountains. Ravens fly to Rivendell, Gondor and the Iron Hills. But nobody has seen Bilbo Baggins, nobody knows where he has gone.

He has vanished, and this, so all observers agree, broke Thorin Oakenshield's heart.

***

A cold wind tears at Bilbo's hair as he surveys the empty plain ahead. Bushes duck low against the fierce elements, while high grass sways and rustles. Birds chirp, and Bilbo's load pony is chewing lazily at a mouthful of grass.

He wishes his heart was at the same ease that his ponies are.

But Erebor has long disappeared from view and while the land before him is peaceful, Bilbo knows this will not continue. This may be the last peace he has, and even this is marred by the pain in his heart. He should be tilting his head back to catch the sun rays that blink from between the racing clouds. Should be breathing the clear air, enjoying the unfamiliar sights.

Though his heart is not here, Bilbo thinks with a wry little smile. His heart remained in Erebor with Thorin, and there he hopes it will last.

Because he doubts he will return from this journey.

***

Mari, daughter of Queen Emris, knows she was not supposed to read the letter. But she's grown fond of Bilbo, too, and she has a feeling they are all missing a piece of the puzzle. Bilbo would not have left them like this, she is sure.

And she is not surprised that the letter confirmed another suspicion: the deep connection between him and Thorin was in fact love. On Thorin's grieved face she can read the same.

Fools, both of them, she thinks and then proceeds to call the marriage off. Not when they have just lost such a dear friend, is what she tells the public and those waiting for her word back home. Not when he ought to be there for that occasion.

But, and here she sits down to think again, it was not unrequited love that drove Bilbo from Erebor. Not a broken heart that made him disappear instead of seeking refuge in familiar places. No, there is something else, something Bilbo never named, and she'll find out.

***

But all traces, all clues, lead nowhere.

Bilbo had spent quite some time in the library, Ori reports. The records show he checked out history books and maps. One of the books has gone missing - but it may also be in Bilbo’s room, which Thorin now does not dare to disturb.

Maybe Bilbo will return. Then he should find his home in Erebor as he left it - the mountain, Thorin will welcome him with open arms.

***

"Thorin!" Mari runs into the crowded throne room, ignoring the gasps and scandalized exclamations. Her hair is ruffled, she's still clad in riding gear, and Thorin has not even risen from his throne before she continues.

"They found him!" she shouts, "They found Bilbo!"

Thorin's heart stops. "Where?" he asks, faintly, while Dwalin draws himself up and bellows "Out! Everybody out!"

The crowd clears rapidly, but Mari doesn't wait, doesn't even catch her breath. "Mordor," she hisses.

"What?" Balin echoes, while Thorin finds he can't breathe. Why Mordor? How did they find Bilbo? How is he? Will he ever return? Will he -

Mari staggers up toward the throne. "I just got a message from home. Sauron sent out messengers; they managed to find out who he's looking for..." She bends over, takes a deep breath and then rushed on. "A halfling named Baggins. Who's carrying the One Ring."

How - White noise fills Thorin's mind, his knees grow weak. The world blurs.

“What?” he stammers weakly, as his back collides with the throne again. Somebody - likely Dwalin - makes sure he doesn’t tumble to the ground, but nothing matters to him anymore. Bilbo, his Bilbo carrying the One Ring?

The most cursed item in all the world?

He’d always imagine that if he just knew where Bilbo was - knew that he was alive and happy - that would be enough. That that knowledge would soothe the terrible longing and guilt in his heart.

But this.

This makes everything so much worse. Bilbo may be alive, but he is likely neither happy nor healthy, and in the gravest danger of them all. He should have realized earlier - now the pieces fall into place, the books Bilbo borrowed, his growing quietude - he should have never allowed him to leave.

Should have paid more attention.

“Do you know his whereabouts?” Balin asks in the background, his voice barely audible over the static fuzz filling Thorin’s ears.

“No,” Mari replies, “But I would think somewhere between here and Mordor.”

“Do you think -” Dwalin begins.

“Of course!” Mari exclaims. “He must have figured out what his magic ring was and decided to solve the problem on his own! We need to find him before the enemy finds him!”

Thorin perks up at that. “Find him?”

Mari looks at him. “We’re not letting him walk all the way to Mordor on his own!”

***

When Bilbo first spies the peak of Mount Doom towering over an enormous, scorched plain, his heart falters. He remembers catching his first peak of Erebor against the distant sky, and then he had not known what was to come. But he'd had friends at his back, and confidence in his heart.

Now he sees his destination and takes a shuddering breath. His mission draws to a close.

He may just succeed.

And if he does, he can take pride in having managed this. Having perhaps even saved the world. Thorin and his friends can live happily ever after, no dark lord will threaten their lives of happiness.

But that is where Bilbo's story ends. Maybe he will be remembered, maybe they'll be grateful to him. Yet he will never get to see them again, will never have a chance to embrace Thorin, to feel his arms around him.

He wants that. He doesn't want to die here. He wants to return to Erebor, to rest against Thorin, and to hold him and be held.

But that was never possible, was it?

Bilbo gives himself a little shake of the head and unfreezes. He has yet ground to cover until his mission is complete, and the eastern side of the Ered Lithui does not forgive wandering attention. No guards patrol these areas for a reason - the mountains do that work for them.

***

Flocks of ravens leave Erebor and an armored company rides south at the break of light. Mirkwood, Dale, the Iron Hills - they all have been called to lend aid, either in challenging Sauron himself or finding Bilbo.

Now that the enemy knows who he is looking for, there is no more need for secrecy.

And so they ride, ride as fast as they can.

***

Mordor’s scorched earth burns the soles of Bilbo’s feet, before he scavenges boots and armor from an orcs dead body. His clothes have grown worn and sticky, their former colors faded to gray, and they hang from his body.

He’s dimly aware of being too thin, too worn. Exhaustion has crept deep into his bones, has numbed his mind and spirit. Only the determination to see this task through carries him forward. Once it is done, he can close his eyes and collapse.

And then the pain, everything, will just stop.

So he walks.

In his armor, few orcs stop him. When asked, he makes up lies. Carrying a message to Barad-Dûr, gathering supplies. It’s easier than it should be.

And then he stands at the foot of Mount Doom, and his quest is almost complete. A part of him - small and shriveled now - does not want this, does not want it to end. There are memories (that have grown pale and distant) of beautiful times and love and happiness - but it’s all too far away, and he’s too worn out now.

***

They have almost reached Mordor. Gathered with rangers and soldiers from Gondor (so much time lost on diplomacy), and have skirted a terrible path over the mountains, while their Mari leads their soldiers to challenge Sauron’s forces at the Black Gate.

Thorin stands at the top of the path and takes his first look at the plains of Gorgoroth (a wide, terrifying wasteland, and he sees but armies and armies of orcs. Where would a lone hobbit be, where in this hell has Bilbo gone?), when Mount doom erupts.

The air trembles, shudders, and for a moment the entire world seems to hold its breath. Thorin stares, wide-eyed and in utter shock. This - A screech echoes through the land, some wave of great power passes. Before Thorin’s disbelieving eyes, Barad-Dûr crumbles. His mind scrambles, refuses to believe.

Sauron has been vanquished. The one ring destroyed.

And Bilbo -

“No,” he murmurs, “Please, no!”

***

Three days passed since he destroyed the Ring. Three days since Barad-Dûr crumbled, while Bilbo hid his battered body on Mount Doom's higher slopes and waited for death. For lava to claim him like it claimed Gollum, or to die from exhaustion.

He barely remembers what happened.

Barely remembers before.

Three days since he opened his eyes, found the lava cooling, Mordor empty and himself still alive. So he had started walking. Water, some half-dead instinct has been telling him, he needs water. Maybe food, but his stomach can't remember eating, so it doesn't matter.

There was taste in his life once. Somewhere, buried behind darkness and despair, there was laughter and green things and happiness. But it's grown all too distant, and he doesn't even miss it.

His battered body sluggishly moves forward. He doesn't feel the pain as the soles of his feet burn, does not notice the pull of wounds on his skin. The abrasions don't heal, but it's of no consequence. He never expected to survive, and now he doesn't know what to do, or where to go.

The numbness isn't bad.

He'll probably die long before it fades.

***

The messenger’s footsteps echo sharply on the marble tile of Minas Tirith grand hall.

"I'm sorry, but there is no trace of anybody."

Thorin gives a short, jerky nod. His heart clenches in pain, the faint hope threatening to finally die. But he can't, not when he needs to tell Bilbo, when he just needs to see his hobbit again.

Only once more would be enough.

Please, he pleads to the fates, only once. Please.

"I'm sorry for your," Ecthelion adds from his seat. "I will not ask you to stop hoping, but we may have to prepare..." he trails off with a shake of his head. "I want to make sure the historians mark this correctly. Let them commit your friend to history - he saved us all."

***

Bodies line the way. Orcs, men, dwarves, elves. Orcs, orcs, and even more orcs. There are fewer of the others and Bilbo wonders what happened. All dead, all rotting, and the stench would be nigh unbearable could he smell it. Flies swarm to him curiously, but then return to the unmoving flesh.

Maybe this would be a good place to die. With so many dead, Bilbo feels odd to be alive. And his body is so fatigued, so worn -

And he finds he cannot stop. Cannot lie down, but must keep walking until death finally takes mercy on him.

So he walks on. Past the crumbled gates, over destroyed plains, until the ground turns green again and their air grows fresh. Finally he comes to the grand ruins of a city, and from the depth of his memory a name rises.

Osgiliath.

There will be a river there. He must drinks, it has been five days, he thinks, perhaps longer. Drink and then -

Something in his chest stirs. But Bilbo prefers the numbness.

***

"Commander," Mari glances up at the man that has entered her tent, "The men just - I think you should come."

He looks frazzled, pale, and Mari climbs to her feet immediately.

"We thought we discovered another orc," the man tells her as he leads her toward the infirmary, "The guard spied it drinking from the river, it was wearing orc armor. Decided to capture it, and realized that it likely wasn't an Orc once they removed the armor."

Mari nods sharply. "And Easterling?" Or perhaps a dwarf? There had long been worries back at home that some of the clans there may decide to ally themselves with Sauron.

The man shakes his head. "The healers don't think so," he says, "they said, well, it fits the description of a hobbit. The one you were looking for."

He does not hear the thunderclap. But for Mari the world falls silent.

"What?" she bursts out, and does not wait for an answer. Instead she flies forward, leaves the messenger standing in the dust, races past the surprised guards and rushes straight into the infirmary. The healers glare at her, but she has no patience for them.

"Where is he?" she demands, "Where -"

"This way, commander," one of healer points, "But he's in -"

A bad shape. A terrible shape, Mari can see this with one glance. But it's Bilbo Baggins. Under all those layers of grime, dust, and hurt, the emaciated, half-dead creature lying on a threadbare sheet is their missing hobbit.

And her heart sings and despairs at the same time, she sinks of her knees, reaches for a bloodied and grime-stained hand with trembling fingers and draws it to her. "Oh Bilbo," she mutters, "What did you do?"

Then she remembers what she has to do.

"Send a raven to Thorin."

***

Thorin arrives hours after nightfall, Dwalin in tow. They must have left the moment the message reached them, but Mari did not expect anything else. She also doesn't bother with any greetings, but leads them straight to the chamber they brought Bilbo to.

Cleaned of most of the filth, dressed in fresh bandages and a new shirt, there is no obscuring the suffering their hobbit must have endured. His cheekbones are sunken, his skin pale underneath the bruises. Even his hair has grown thin and brittle, and still he looks more dead than alive.

Thorin's breath falters. He takes one shaky step forward, then freezes.

"Has he woken?" Dwalin inquires from behind Mari.

No, and the healers are not confident he will. The moment they had his identity, they did their utmost. But, as the head healer had confessed, the stress Bilbo was exposed to, would have long since killed a man. His injuries may still prove too much. Though she will not tell Thorin this now.

So she merely shakes her head and watches as Thorin makes his reverent approach.

He walks forward, slow and solemn, hope and pain weighing down his steps in equal measure. Bilbo remains deeply unconscious; too small or the large bed, and even smaller now from the hardships he suffered. Even now, to think he walked all the way from Erebor to Mount Doom on his own –

They are so very, very lucky to have found Bilbo again.

***

The world narrows until only Thorin and Bilbo are left and everything else has vanished. With his heart caught in a spell and unfathomable feelings welling up in his chest Thorin sinks to his knees next to the bed. Bilbo sleeps on, undisturbed, though there are lines of discomfort on his face.

He would kiss them away, mend them with his own soul.

Thorin scarcely dares to breathe for fear that the hobbit may dissolve like a mirage. His hand reaches out slowly, hesitantly. What if this is not real -

What if this shatters only to send them back into the wilderness, far from Erebor, far from Bilbo. What if he has to return to a world where Bilbo is forever lost to him?

This is a miraculous turn of fate, and fate rarely is kind to Thorin. But maybe, and this he clings to with despair as his fingers brush the scraped skin on the back of Bilbo’s hand, maybe fate will be kind to Bilbo.

After everything he has done.

After everything he sacrificed.

For Thorin, for Erebor, for all of them.

Upon his touch, Bilbo’s body does not vanish or shatter, and so Thorin sighs in relief and takes Bilbo’s hand between his gently. He’d always had small hands, Thorin remembers. Small hands that held so much already.

Now these hands are scarred, burned, and too thin. The bones feel fragile under Thorin’s grip, the skin papery, and Bilbo is neither of that. Bilbo - the Bilbo Thorin remembers - had always glowed with life, had always been so kind.

And that kindness had cost him so greatly.

If only Bilbo had been more selfish.

Thorin hangs his head. Had he known of Bilbo’s feelings he would never have agreed to the engagement. He’d -

Well, he might have looked into a mirror and recognized his own feelings on the matter. He would have understood just why he treasured Bilbo’s company so. Why he’d been so happy when the hobbit announced he’d stay.

But Thorin had let contentment blind him and never contemplated that there might have been more.

Now all he can do is pick up the pieces.

“Bilbo,” he whispers quietly, even though he knows Bilbo cannot hear him. He doesn’t need the healers to tell him - Bilbo’s pallor is deathly - there is not much life left within him. He’s fading away, and there is nothing they can do except hope.

“Bilbo, please come back to me.”

***

The day after Bilbo develops an ugly fever. It rages for five days, and leaves his body even weaker than before. Thorin does not leave his side even once, and none dare to suggest it. Even Mari is reluctant to leave, until, at the fourth day the healer tells her with a frown.

"If he survives the fever, he might make it," he admits, "Before I thought he would not - his body seemed only to be waiting to shut down, it was not fighting those infections at all. Now it is, so if he makes it, you may just be in luck."

He deserves that luck, Mari thinks. If one person in the entire world deserves some luck, it should be Bilbo Baggins.

***

On day seven the healers declare Bilbo officially on the mend.

Bilbo still sleeps most of the time and is rarely lucid when he wakes, but his body has begun to recover. Slowly the wounds on his body heal, his skin regains color, and he no longer looks quite so close to death.

Then he wakes one day, sees Thorin, and promptly sinks into a state of jarring confusion that is so much worse than his muttering from the fever-dreams.

“Nonono,” Bilbo mutters to himself, blind to the pain on Thorin’s face. “No, you cannot be here, no this cannot be happening. This must be, no. Nonono.”

“Bilbo, I - “ Thorin attempts, but Bilbo is shaking his head softly and staring at nothing and the healers hurry to push Thorin from the room.

“You must understand, your majesty, your presence is unexpected and upsetting. And we cannot allow him to be upset.”

So, even though it pains them greatly, Thorin, Dwalin, and Mari keep their distance while Bilbo recovers.

***

Bilbo’s return to consciousness proceeds slowly. He’s not certain he wants to wake - it is comfortable where he is. Nothingness may be preferable, as he distantly remembers pain and despair and heartbreak and a world so bleak his heart would not bear it.

No, he does not want to return there.

He’d rather spend forever adrift within nothing.

But against his will his body moves and he grows aware of things. The smell of a fresh herb in the air, soft sheets under his skin. And his body is exhausted, so terribly exhausted, and yet he longer feels quite so emaciated. The light does not burn him and the sharp aches have disappeared.

He can wriggle his toes and fingers. The skin is tight where the scabs are healing, but not hot anymore. And the beckoning darkness recedes further. So it is with reluctance that Bilbo opens his eyes and finds himself gazing upon a vaguely familiar ceiling. He can’t -

He doesn’t want to remember anything right now.

But it feels as if he’d seen the ceiling and the room in a dream. Or a vision. He recognizes the light curtains and the tall furniture. Yet in those dreams Thorin was also there -

Bilbo shakes his head decisively. He must have imagined that, he thinks as another wave of exhaustion crawls across him Thorin won’t be here; that was likely only his heart’s wistful thinking. No, he tells himself, Thorin will be in Erebor and happy.

And that’s for the best.

Though now that Bilbo has done the impossible and yet finds himself still alive, he wonders what to do. The home in the Shire he gave up long ago. Erebor he did not expected to return to and does not now if he can.

Perhaps it would have been better had he never woken up.

The darkness beckons once again when the door opens and two women enter. They’re surprised to see Bilbo awake, but rather happy at it. They also know his name, which makes Bilbo wonder, but before he can ask any questions, he has to answer theirs.

And then, before he can possibly regain his bearings, one of them smiles.

“There are some people here who would like to see you,” she tells Bilbo, “Can they come in?”

***

Thorin takes a deep breath. Looks to Mari and Dwalin who seem equally caught between gladness and worry. Awake and aware, the healer had said, and waiting for you.

It’s time, Thorin tells himself as he straightens his back and knocks on the door. Time to try and make things right. He will never be able to undo the hurt Bilbo suffered, will never be able to take back the pain. But maybe, little by little, they can build a happier future.

He pushes the door open.

Bilbo sits upright in bed, looking even smaller amid the man-made furniture. His face is wan, but his eyes aware - and when they find Thorin, they widen abruptly. They grow wider still when he spies Mari and Dwalin, and for a moment Thorin fears he might faint.

But Bilbo remains upright, looking as if the lightest breeze might blow him over, and his fingers clench in the bedcovers.

"You - why? Why are you here? How did you… "

"You are our dear, beloved friend, Bilbo," Mari says the words Thorin cannot find, "We would never leave you alone, especially not on such a dangerous venture."

"Should've told us anyway," Dwalin grumbles, "Would've helped you."

"But," Bilbo stammers, "You ..."

"You said not to come," Mari replies sternly, "Usually that is the moment you should come running."

Dwalin snorts, and the corner of Bilbo's mouth twitches. A wet shine wells up in his eyes, and he lowers his head, tries to rub at his eyes surreptitiously,

Thorin's own eyes tear up in response.

"I mean it," Mari announces and breaks the stalemate by approaching the bed, "We would never have let you go alone. Bilbo, we -"

Her voice hitches. And then she steps forward and draws Bilbo into her arms. "We’d have come with you, all the way, Bilbo, if you had told us,” she says while she draws the astonished hobbit against her chest and buries her face in his hair, “We’d have walked to Mordor and back, had we known.”

“We would,” Thorin confirms, and then Mari gets a hold of his sleeve and draws him into the hug as well. Thorin stiffens, first, but then winds one arm around Bilbo, one arm around Mari and draws them close.

Somebody might be crying, but it doesn’t matter.

“You…” Bilbo stutters, “You… came for me?”

“You’re among the best friends I’ve ever had, Bilbo,” Mari says, not hiding the wetness in her voice, “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

Bilbo makes a choked sound, and Thorin tightens his hold. “Nothing,” he vows, “And I’m sorry. I never –“

“Alright, alright,” Mari interrupts and disentangles herself, “You two should talk. Have a long talk. Without company.”

Her voice hitches, and Bilbo makes to protest. But Mari’s already half-way out of the room, and drags an unresisting Dwalin along with her.

"Thorin?" Bilbo asks in a small voice.

The dwarf shakes his head at the now closed door. "I … she is right. I, we … there is much I need to tell you. Should have told you before. A long time ago, I –“

He still wishes he had more than words (that feel so terribly inadequate). But all he can do is take Bilbo’s hand with both of his and make sure he does not press too hard (those bones feel so frighteningly thin and breakable), and speak.

“I, your letter…”

“Oh, that, Thorin, I’m –“

Thorin shushes him gently. “Let me explain.”

He takes a deep breath, and waits until Bilbo’s posture is relaxed again. “I am sorry for not speaking to you sooner. For not realizing your feelings.” Thorin shakes his head. “You must have known that the engagement was a political union only. At that point it seemed like the best option – us dwarves do not usually like political marriages, but as none of us had thought love a possibility…”

Bilbo nods.

“If I had known, I’d never have agreed to the match,” Thorin confesses, “I thought there was no chance that, well. I thought it was for the best, really.”

“It was,” Bilbo confirms, though Thorin can feel him tensing, feels the still present pain run through hm. “You could have … you didn’t need to come after me.” He blinks, and Thorin can almost feel the pain that must still linger. He wishes he could take it all away at once.

“No,” he says instead, “And Mari spoke the truth when she said we would have never let you go on your own. It was – you should not have needed to do this on your own.”

Bilbo’s entire appearance is one reminder of how close it had been.

But there is something else he needs to confess, so he clears his throat again. “Be that as it may, I … as I said, we would not have agreed to the union had we known.”

Bilbo stiffens. “Thorin,” he interrupts, his voice still thick with tears, “You needn’t… I mean I understood that it was a good match, and that it was pragmatic. My feelings are --- unfortunate, that is all. I shouldn’t have written –“

“No Bilbo,” Thorin’s grip on Bilbo’s hand tightens, and he leans closer, “I … should have spoken much earlier. Years ago. I did not dare to hope – after my behavior toward you, after what happened – I was glad to have your friendship, and more than honored to have you stay.

I never would have dared to hope for more.” Thorin swallows down the clot threatening to choke him.

Bilbo stares at him with wide, wide eyes. “You…”

Thorin looks at their entangled hands and raises them to press a soft kiss atop the back of Bilbo’s hand. “I have loved you for a very long time, Bilbo.”

***

Later there are more explanations. Bilbo learns that Thorin never expected his feelings to be returned. That he was content to provide for Bilbo’s happiness - that seeing the hobbit happy and healthy was entirely enough for him.

He’d never expected to find his feelings returned.

Much like Bilbo himself.

“Seeing you happy was all I wanted,” he confesses as he sits, wrapped in a thick cloak in chamber in Minas Tirith. He’s yet too weak for the long journey back home, but Gondor has greeted them with royally.

“You seemed so happy with Mari. I have to admit, I felt jealous at first. Then Mari arrived, and I couldn’t but like her.” Bilbo chuckles. “But what will she do? Now that the engagement is off?”

Thorin hears the note of worry in Bilbo’s voice. “What she wanted from the beginning on. Explore the world.”

And Mari is indeed the first to depart. But unlike them she does not travel north, but joins a caravan heading south. To meet the Haradrim and find out about local dwarves, and yes, she promises her worried friends, she will write. And she will return and then travel with them back over the Misty Mountains and to the Shire. Afterward they can all travel east together, perhaps even try to visit the Ironfist stronghold in the far north. They may not like strangers, but they are no strangers; they’re friends.

So it is only Thorin, Bilbo, and Dwalin who eventually turn to head north.

***

A fresh breeze blows over the long lake and sends ripples across the turquoise water. Fluffy white clouds speed past overhead, and the young trees (those planted after the battle) wear fresh green. Large crowds line the way, have assembled on the walls of Dale and along the bridges leading to Erebor.

Banners flutter overhead, and finally a loud fanfare sounds. Cheers errupt.

Bilbo stares in befuddlement. “They knew?” he mumbles under his breath, while Thorin turns to him with a small smile and reaches out to put the small braid in Bilbo’s hair into the right position. “Of course they did.”

“They’ve been waiting all along,” Dwalin adds from behind them.

Bilbo swallows. “Oh,” he mumbles and stares at the colorful banners, the cheering crowd. The celebrations in Gondor seemed so solemn (and he’d managed to stay in the background).

“Welcome back, King under the Mountain!” the greeting echoes over the hills, pronounced from a stage before Erebor’s gate, and while the figure is too far away and the amplification distorts the voice, Bilbo thinks he recognizes Balin.

How long has it been?

How long since he left Erebor? That he thought he’d never see them or this place again?

His eyes burn, the crowd cheers loudly, and Balin continues. “Welcome victorious soldiers! Welcome friends, old and new! Welcome to Erebor!”

Those last words are almost drowned in loud exclamations. Dwalin gives a nod and the soldiers that so bravely and obediently followed him all the way south and back finally relax. They turn forward, some run, some walk, and the crowd descends into chaos as friends and families greet their returned members.

“And Bilbo Baggins, dear friend of us all and bravest of all hobbits,” Balin continues, even though by now hardly anybody is paying attention anymore, “Welcome home.”

Bilbo wipes away the tears, though they won’t quite stop coming. Thorin grasps his shoulders, and pulls him against his chest. “It’s all good,” he whispers, and presses his lips against Bilbo’s hair, even as the first familiar voices call out their names.

And then Fili and Kili throw themselves forward, abandoning all decorum, and Bofur follows suit, and all others of the company won’t miss out on the action, and suddenly Bilbo is crying and laughing at the same time. There was a time when the world seemed to bleak and hopeless and he could not imagine a reason to continue - but now the darkness is gone.

And he can finally be happy.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna see some more writings or just watch me flail, I have a [tumblr](wwww.paranoidfridge.tumblr.com).


	48. Rejuvenating Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After eating “rejuvenating berries” (a gift from the east) Thorin and Bilbo wake up as children. They don’t remember getting to Erebor, or each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a birthday ficlet for the lovely [catofcream](www.catofcream.tumblr.com) I wrote posted over on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/137650740107/rejuvenating-berries). And cat being the awesome person she is [drew art](http://catofcream.tumblr.com/post/137776899269/some-doodle-from-rejuvenating-berries-that-the). Take a look ~
> 
> This is mostly fluff!

Dwalin may be a mother hen or slightly paranoid or maybe obsessive or any of the other things he has been called, but every night before going to bed and every morning before breakfast he makes his own inspection of Erebor. This morning he hasn’t gotten far – just looked into the royal wing, nodded at the guards there – when the screams start.

High-pitched, fear-filled and shrill. First one voice, then another, and Dwalin is running toward the large door leading to Thorin’s and Bilbo’s rooms. His mind races, the door is locked and he gestures to the guards to step aside before he wrenches his axes out and smashes down the door.

The screaming stops, only to rise anew, and there may be words, but Dwalin barely hears it over the rush of his own blood, the pounding footsteps, and the shouting behind him. He doesn’t know what is happening, but those are familiar voices, and he’s not heard Thorin scream like this since –

It’s coming from their bedchamber.

Dwalin sucks in a sharp breath before bursting through that doorway he’d never cross otherwise.

And the screaming stops abruptly.

There is no assassin to slay. No intruder to take care of.

Instead, two young faces stare up at him in wonder and fear. Thorin is curled against the headboard of the wide bed, wielding a pillow in defense, while Bilbo sits on the floor with his nightshirt hanging off his shoulders, clinging to another pillow that is nearly as big as him. 

Dwalin stops cold. Blinks.

This –

Bilbo hiccups, tears filling his eyes again. Thorin draws himself up – and even standing on the bed he barely comes up to Dwalin’s shoulder. 

“Who are you?” Thorin thunders, or rather tries to. His childhood voice is a lot of higher than the voice of a grown dwarf. 

And now Dwalin also understands the high-pitched screaming. They’re – Somehow – Something turned Thorin and Bilbo into children. 

Belatedly Dwalin remembers to put down his axe. 

“Who are you?” Thorin demands again. “Tell me, or I will call the guards!” He’s biting down on his lower lip, and Dwalin recognizes the gesture as a habit Thorin lost years ago. In fact, he even recognizes the healing bruise Thorin sports on his forehead as the takeaway from a sparring session. Dwalin gave him that – nearly ninety years ago. 

“Uh…,” Dwalin stammers, dumbfounded. 

“Uncle!” Fili shouts, as he stumbles through the doorway, Kili hot on his heels. They’re both in their nightgowns, but armed to the teeth with swords, knives and bow and arrows.  “Uncle, is everything alright? Are we under attack?”  
Thorin edges further back on the bed. Bilbo just curls up and hides behind his pillow.

Dwalin swallows. “We’re not under attack,” he declares. “But we might have a problem.” And with that he gestures to the two children that until last night used to be adults.

* * *

“They’re children,” Balin repeats, caught between exasperation and disbelief. He’s not seen them yet, Dwalin thinks, but mostly he’s thankful that the screaming has stopped. Now the door has been closed again, and in there Dori and Ori are taking care of their de-aged King and Consort.

And won’t that be lovely to explain their absence in court, too?

“Yes,” Kili nods. He’s taking it better than his brother, who still looks pale and shell-shocked. Neither of them has changed out of their nightgowns, either.  “I think Thorin’s about twenty or so.”

“Twenty-seven,” Dwalin corrects. “I remember giving him that bruise.”

Kili chuckles incredulous and leans against one of the marble pillars. “You did that?” 

“Yes, ninety years ago.” 

Balin interrupts them with a loud sigh from where he sits at the lone table of the bedroom’s ante-chamber. “Never mind that. Do you have any idea how they got like this?”

Utter silence ensues. Dwalin looks to the others, Kili studies his shoes, and Fili still stares straight ahead. Nori clears his throat. 

“While I far from know what occurred,” he says, “I would suspect magic.”

Of course, Dwalin thinks. People don’t revert to their childhood selves when they want to. 

“Have they received any curious gifts? Strange foods or beverages?”

“I would need to check with Bombur,” Balin says, “And ask Gloin about the gifts. In the meantime, I will send a raven to both Gandalf and Radagast. Maybe they can help.”

“Keep the message abstract,” Nori advises, “In case it is picked up by any unsavory characters. It may be good to keep this development under wraps anyway – lest it inspires foolish actions.”

Dwalin automatically grits his teeth. “Erebor’s not weaker like this.”

“No,” Nori responds promptly, “But children are considered easier to kidnap.”

Everything within Dwalin contracts, and he swears he will not take his eyes off Thorin and Bilbo for a second. 

Balin nods. “I believe it may be best if they stayed inside.”

“What will we tell the court?” Kili inquires, his eyes wide. 

“Food poisoning,” Nori offers. “Everybody saw them sharing food last night. Makes sense that they both caught the same thing.”

“It’s not very dignified…” Kili mutters. 

Nori shrugs. “Well, we could always dress up Thorin and put him on the throne like this. I don’t know what he was like at that age, but if you’d given me a kingdom to rule with twenty, we’d all be constructing waterslides by nightfall.”

The short image of Thorin – whom Dwalin distinctly remembers at the age of twenty – wearing the royal regalia is absurd. Imagining Bilbo – the miniature version – in his regalia nearly makes him snort. 

“Let’s not,” Kili agrees.

“Well, then, Fili,” Balin turns toward the crown prince, “I believe you need to managed court and council today.”

Fili pales even further. “I… feel a little sick, too, now that you say it…” 

Balin chuckles. “Ah, I’ll help you, and you –“

The bedroom door opens. 

Bilbo is the first to emerge. He looks decades younger – likely he’s around the same age as Thorin, whatever this may amount to in hobbit years. His curls are a shade darker, but his eyes sparkle as he looks at the emergency conference in his own ante-chamber.

“You’re dwarves!” he declares proudly. “You’re dwarves! Otho will never believe me! I can’t wait to tell them!”

“Yes, you can tell them everything,” Dori adds with a chuckle as he follows Bilbo. Something in Dwalin’s chest clenches a little. Bilbo’s parents are dead, his kin far, far away – hopefully they’ll find a way to remedy the situation before this grows ill. 

“How old are you?” Bilbo asks of Fili who stands right next to the door. “What is your name? Where do you live? How many –“

“Slow down, Bilbo, slow down,” Dori cautions, and then Dwalin is distracted by Thorin marching through the door, shadowed by Ori. Like Bilbo, his clothes are now fixed, but still visibly too large. Thorin stops three steps into the room, frowns and crosses his arms. 

“…and we all live here.” Dwalin catches the end of Fili’s explanation. The crown prince has relaxed, and smiles gently at Bilbo. “Did Dori and Ori explain to you how you got here?”

Bilbo scrunches up his face. “Yes,” he says, “They said I’m grown up and I live here. But I don’t remember any of it. It’s all so weird.” Discomfort dances at the edges of his expression, and Fili realizes this quickly. 

“Well, it is,” Fili confirms. “But what do you want to do?”

“What do you usually do?” Dori interrupts and crouches down before Bilbo. “Do you usually have lessons in the morning? Writing and calculations, perhaps?”

Kili blinks. “You want to make them take classes?” 

Dori shoots him a quick glare. “At that age they need an education.”

“They’re King and Consort under the Mountain!” Kili erupts, “They –“

“Are twenty years old right now,” Balin interrupts. “There’s nothing wrong with learning.” Dori huffs and turns back to Bilbo who doesn’t seem very concerned by the interruption. 

“Well, in the morning my mother teaches me,” he tells Dori proudly, “Writing and reading, and math and about plants and animals. And Sindarin!” 

“Pah,” Thorin snorts and looks away. 

Bilbo casts an angry look toward Thorin. “It’s a great language! And one day I’ll meet elves and then I’ll be able to talk to them!”

“Only a fool would want to meet elves,” Thorin spits.

“Thorin!” Balin and Dori reprimand as one. “That wasn’t very nice,” Balin adds, while Dori turns to Bilbo.

Thorin doesn’t look guilty – but Dwalin can easily see through the stubborn mask. Thorin is deeply, deeply unsettled. “You can’t tell me anything!” Thorin proclaims. “You said I was King! Then I demand you do as I say! Obey your King!”

Balin huffs and stands up. “Really, Thorin,” he says with the disappointed expression that has haunted Dwalin all the way from childhood into his adult years. “I would think a King knows better than to demand blind servitude. Do you want to rule over –“

“Balin?” Thorin interrupts, his eyes widening almost comically. Now that he barely sports stubble, his eyes appear even bigger, and the recognition in them undeniable. 

“Your hair is white!” he exclaims, and belatedly turns to look at the other dwarves. Of course, he recognizes Dwalin, too. 

“And Dwalin! Your hair is gone!”

* * *

Bilbo diligently copies the runes into his notebook. It’s fun to do, even if Thorin protests a lot. He’s a bit mean, Bilbo thinks, and far bigger than he is, but everybody here seems to be. Apparently he is within a mountain, but he’s not sure. So far he’s not been outside at all. 

The dwarves told him he has been living here. 

But Bilbo doesn’t remember moving to a mountain. Then again, his memories in general are a little hazy. He thinks he went to sleep in his own bed last night, and his father probably read him a story. He always does that, after all. 

So maybe this is some crazy dream. 

And learning the dwarf language is fun, even if Thorin is mean, and Bilbo doubts he’d ever have married somebody like him anyway.

* * *

Fili sighs as the last petitioner disappears from the chamber. The day is far from over, but he’s thankful for the reprieve when Nori slides in. 

“I just spoke with Bombur,” Nori relays, “Apparently he prepared some odd berries for Thorin and Bilbo last night. Were a gift from Rhûn, who named them a specialty from the east. We don’t know more than that, but I’ll let you know once we do.”

Fili nods. “It won’t … kill them or anything?” The knot in his stomach has grown impossibly tight by now. 

Nori purses his lips. “They’re still alive, so if those berries had been poisonous, I think they’d have run their course by now.”

* * *

By early afternoon, Dwalin has been thoroughly reminded just how exhausting young Thorin had been. It might not have been noticeable back then – because Dwalin had been the same age – but Thorin before Erebor fell could be downright bratty.

So far he has teased Dwalin about his lack of hair more than once, complained about Bilbo in a way painfully reminiscent of his treatment of the hobbit early into their quest, and done his best to drive Dori up a wall. Bilbo, thankfully, is easy to please, though Ori has been running between the royal apartments and the library non-stop. 

“I want to spar,” Thorin demands, shutting down the book before him. Despite his claims of supremacy toward Bilbo, his Khuzdul is not nearly that refined. “Dwalin, spar with me!”

Bilbo glances up, and Dori looks to him. “Do you want to spar, too, Bilbo?”

“He can’t,” Thorin declares. 

“I can!” Bilbo protests immediately. 

“Can’t!”

“Can!”

“Can’t!”

“I’ll show you!”

“Boys,” Dori interrupts with an unveiled sigh, “Boys, calm down. I suppose we can go and see if a practice room is empty.”

He looks to Dwalin, and he knows what he has to do. While Dwalin shuts the door behind him, he just catches Bilbo asking: “Aren’t we going to practice outside?” and his heart breaks a little. Hopefully this resolves soon.

Because they’re certainly not taking their mini rulers outside (even though right now he’s not sure who’d end up permanently traumatized).

* * *

Fili turns to Oin. “So it’s harmless?”

The healer shrugs. “As far as I can tell. The berries Bombur still had looked normal – and none of my tests revealed anything terrible.”

“Hmm,” Fili frowns. “Do you have any idea when it will wear off?” Please, he thinks, let it wear off. Because even though he is prepared to rule Erebor one day; he had hoped this day would be far in the distant future. 

And should Thorin and Bilbo remain like this, without their memories – 

“We should find out soon,” Oin promises rather ominously. “The berries should pass through their bodies within a day or so. However, if they don’t revert by tomorrow, the change may be permanent.”

Fili gulps. 

***

This is not a good idea, Dwalin thinks, and sees Dori and Ori mirror his misgivings. But Thorin is growling, and Bilbo looks angry, too, and now they’re both wielding practice swords, and have finished warming up, and unless anybody straight out forbids them to fight, there is no way to stop this. 

“Alright,” Dwalin turns to Thorin, “Listen. This is a practice fight, you know the rules.”

“No hard strikes,” Thorin lists petulantly, “Don’t aim for the head. Stop when it’s enough. I know these things, Dwalin. You should tell them to Bilbo.”

Dwalin sighs. He can’t remember being this exhausting, but he begins to understand why his brother began turning white so early. 

“Dori is telling him,” Dwalin says. He wants to add something about not hurting Bilbo because Thorin is bound to regret it. Once this wears off and Thorin remembers everything, he’ll likely hate himself for this behavior – though in all honesty, underneath his politeness and cheer, Bilbo has shown himself to be quite as mean. 

(Initially Dwalin thought the repeated mentioning of elves came from Bilbo’s rather weird fascination with them. Then he caught Bilbo watching Thorin’s reactions closely, and grinning with each flinch he could evoke. He has been aware of Bilbo’s easy at terrifying court members, but he’d not quite expected that talent to have been developed so young.)

“This is a terrible idea,” Ori frets when Dwalin steps aside and clears the outlined field for Thorin and Bilbo. 

“It is,” Dori agrees with a sigh, “but they’re wearing protective gear. Let’s hope for the best.”

At that very moment Thorin throws himself forward with a primal roar, wooden swords raised far too high over his head and leaving his chest wide open. Dwalin cringes at the sight. But Bilbo is no warrior. He flinches, and then smoothly sidesteps Thorin’s charge.

Thorin catches himself half a step too far and twists around. Good idea, Dwalin evaluates, but too slow. Bilbo is half-way to the other side of the field already, and watches Thorin’s strike meet empty air with a giggle. 

“Are you fighting ghosts?” Bilbo calls out.

Thorin snorts angrily. “You!” he shouts and holds out his sword straight, “At least fight me! Stop running away like a coward!”

“Thorin!” Dori reprimands, but it remains unheard. 

Bilbo frowns, and in the next moment he is charging, just like Thorin with his sword raised too high, too wide open.  But when Thorin makes to dodge, Bilbo follows and his sword smacks hard against Thorin’s upper arm. 

Bilbo yells in triumph, Thorin’s face twists in fury, and Dwalin realizes he needs to intercede.

He’s made it to his feet, when Thorin swings his sword, and maybe he realizes he’s doing something foolish at the very last moment, but Dwalin’s yell “Thorin, stop!” cuts through the room the moment Thorin’s sword connects with the side of Bilbo’s head. 

The hobbit goes down hard.

Dwalin, Dori, and Ori are running forward immediately. 

“Thorin, what were you thinking!” Dori shouts. “You know you don’t aim for the head! You could have killed him!”

Dwalin sees Thorin flinch from the corner of his eye. No, it wasn’t intentional; this Thorin is but a child, and they should have known better, but now he needs to look after Bilbo first. Maybe they’ll be lucky and –

Bilbo stirs, sits up, and almost hits his head against Ori’s. His face is scrunched in pain, and tears leak from his eyes. A small trickle of blood runs from a superficial cut on his forehead.

Dwalin almost breathes out in relief. 

“Does it hurt, Bilbo?” Dori inquires, and the hobbit nods. He’s biting down on his lips to stop himself from crying, and Dwalin lets Dori coo over him for a moment. 

“Thorin,” he says instead and turns to his young friend with his face utterly serious. 

He sees Thorin swallow with insecurity, and Dwalin by now is certain Thorin tried to stop the strike at the last moment. If he hadn’t pulled away, that swing would have caused worse than the superficial cut Dori is bandaging. 

“Thorin,” Dwalin says again.

“Alright,” Thorin huffs, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, to hurt him. I just – I was angry.”

“I know,” Dwalin returns evenly. “But this is a practice room. You know better than to let your temper get the better of you. Dori is right, you know. You could have killed him.” He looks Thorin right in the eye.

This may not be the Thorin that is in love with Bilbo, but Dwalin knows this Thorin would never want to hurt an innocent bystander. Much less kill. At that age, Thorin had been terrified of death.

Thorin pales. “But he is alright, is he?” he asks with badly veiled worry. 

“You were lucky,” Dwalin replies. “But you –“

Thorin inclines his head promptly. “I will apologize, of course. It’s – I, I was angry. I’m sorry, Dwalin. I didn’t – I know better. I know I shouldn’t have tried that, I just- .” He shakes his head, and keeps his face hidden from view. “Today is such a dreadful day.” 

Dwalin’s heart twinges in response. For this Thorin who doesn’t remember getting here, who awoke to find his friends aged, and his family absent.  
Before he can say anything, Thorin has gathered himself and marches past him. He sits down straight before Bilbo. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin says bravely, “I’m very sorry for what I did. I know I should not have done that. I was angry, but I should have known better. I am sorry.”

Bilbo blinks at him, surprise spreading across his tear-stained face. “I… Alright,” he murmurs in confusion, “I mean, I was angry, too.”

“You didn’t go against the rules.”

“I don’t know most of the rules.”

Thorin abruptly burst into laughter, and Bilbo joins. “Friends?” Bilbo asks, and holds out his hand. Thorin looks at him with a bright smile. “Certainly.”

“Great!” Bilbo proclaims. “I always wanted to have dwarf friends.”

“And I’m not just any dwarf,” Thorin proclaims proudly. “If you’re my friend, you are a friend of all dwarves in Erebor.”

And just like that their quarrel is forgotten. Dwalin shakes his head to himself, but in all honesty he’s glad to witness this development. Even if it makes a part in his chest ache to see Thorin like this, and to realize it’s likely temporary.

This Thorin hasn’t lost everything. This Thorin hasn’t seen his kin and family die, hasn’t fought for survival and struggled through poverty. This Thorin is still the child Dwalin has nearly forgotten, and while he may have been spoiled – crown prince of the richest kingdom – he had always possessed that true and good core. 

“I can show you some tricks,” Thorin offers to Bilbo.

The hobbit grins and Dwalin can see the spark of Bilbo’s adventurous spirit gleam in that expression. He’s not known Bilbo as a child – but he’s quite different from the fussy, easily-scared creature they picked up in Hobbiton all those years ago. 

Though, Dwalin thinks as he watches them, both probably have regained something of their childhood selves in recent years: Bilbo his curiosity and openness, and Thorin his ease and confidence. 

* * *

Bilbo wakes far too early. Namely he wakes, when his nightshirt first grows too tight and then rips loudly, leaving him mostly bare.  Utterly befuddled, he blinks at the ceiling, while Thorin next to him jerks upright. The tattered remains of his shirt fall away and leave his chest bare. 

It’s always a very welcome sight.

“I had the strangest dream,” Thorin proclaims, and turns to Bilbo. “We got turned into children, and were fighting and…”

Bilbo frowns. “I rather think it was real,” he says. There’s a spike of phantom pain on his forehead, but when he reaches up he finds the skin there unmarred. 

Thorin stares at their ripped clothes. “…right,” he mumbles.

Bilbo rubs at his head. It’s all quite odd, he has to admit. A dream would be the better explanation. But here they are in shredded nightshirts that he distinctly recalls putting on (or rather putting on with Dori’s help). 

He cringes. 

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Thorin asks flatly. 

“Did Dori really tuck us in?” 

“And you insisted Balin read us a story.”

“Your favorite story, I believe. You insisted.”

They stare at each other in dawning horror, before Bilbo begins to chuckle and Thorin joins. “Do you think we could bribe them to forget about it?” Bilbo asks, as he shakes his head at himself. 

“Balin and Dwalin?” Thorin returns. “Never. But we could ask Bombur if he’s still got some of those magic berries.”

“Rejuvenating powers indeed,” Bilbo cheerfully agrees, and then stretches leisurely. It’s still rather early, but he feels well-rested. He probably hasn’t gone to sleep this early since his tweens. “But in all honesty, I do feel rather rejuvenated.”

His smirk turns sultry. “And there’s something I think I have quite an appetite for.”


	49. "I'm dying, Thorin"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts with a nosebleed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're back to angst again. Warnings for light violence, angst, but no character death! (And this is also an import from [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/138219759676/a-writing-prompt-if-youre-up-for-it-im-dying).)

It begins as a nosebleed. 

Bilbo sits with the rest of the company. The hour is late, their stores have dwindled, but Thorin still trawls the grand treasury, ever searching for the gem of gems. 

But the Arkenstone is yet to be found.

“Bilbo, lad, you’re bleeding,” Balin says, and Bilbo looks up from his watery stew. Brings a hand to his nose, feels the coppery liquid there. 

“Oh,” he says and before the company’s worried eyes he pales, “Oh.”

Hobbits don’t normally get nosebleeds. The Baggins family, however, has been known to have been hounded by a strange sickness that would cause them. The bleedings and tremors. A lack of appetite, growing dizziness, headaches.

And eventually, death.

No cure could ever be found. The sickness not even named. But it had claimed Bungo Baggins as it had taken many before him. So when Bilbo raises his - trembling - hand, looks at the blood, and thinks he’s not really hungry, he understands what is happening. 

“Maybe lie down?” Gloin suggests. “We can go down and see if anything more substantial has survived in the pantry.”

Bilbo nods, his mind spinning. “Yes, yes.”

“Don’t worry,” Bofur pats his shoulder with a sad smile. “A good meal, and you’ll be right as rain.”

* * *

The dwarves raid on Erebor’s dust-covered kitchen turns up disappointingly little. Not that Bilbo desires much. He feels weak, and when he stumbles back to the treasury on Thorin’s command, the world spins before his eyes.

Here, he thinks as he digs through the gold, like this? So far from home? 

“Are you quite alright?” Dwalin asks in passing.

Bilbo nods. He’s among friends, he reminds himself. It could be worse.

“Where is it?” Thorin explodes in the far corner of the treasury, “It must be somewhere in here! No one shall rest until it is found!”

“Thorin,” Fili interrupts. “Maybe we should take a break and develop a strategy to -”

“No!” Thorin cuts off his nephew. “I will not allow anybody to steal it! Do not -” He trails off, sways on his feet. 

Most of the time Thorin is not himself, lately. They’ve all observed it, and to Bilbo Ori had spoken of the thrall of the gold. Bilbo recalls Elrond’s words of sickness, and he understands what is happening. But understanding doesn’t make watching any less painful. Seeing Thorin deterioriate by the hour, lose sight of himself and regress into an obsessed creature makes Bilbo’s skin crawl.

He wishes he could do something.

But his words only rarely manage to penetrate the haze surrounding Thorin nowadays. 

* * *

Then the survivors from Laketown arrive and they lose Thorin completely. Instead of helping, the dwarf orders the gates blocked and a watch set. Everybody else must be in the treasury. 

Their stores have run out.

Thorin doesn’t care.

Bilbo’s dizziness has become a constant companion. Twice now he’s waken to nosebleeds, but amid their situation, this almost seems minor. He’s glad he’s been spared the headaches so far. His father’s used to be terrible.

So he continues to sort through the sheer unending piles of treasure, looking for that large white gem that’s robbed Thorin of all decency. He hopes it’ll never be found. 

He only stops when red droplets hit the golden coins underneath him. For a moment, Bilbo stares in confusion. 

“Oh,” he thinks, but the world is already dissolving into blackness.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

He comes awake as he’s roughly turned over. Large hands grasps his shoulder and pull him to his knees, and Bilbo’s head swims and aches.

“Did I say you could sleep? Has the Arkenstone be found? We cannot -”

“Bilbo!” Thorin is interrupted by Fili who stares with wide eyes at the dried blood sticking to Bilbo’s face. That must stain the collar of his shirt. Bilbo can feel it (it’s disgusting), but his hands shake and he feels too weak to effectively wipe it off.

“Do you know where it is, burglar?” Thorin hisses, leaning close. Madness dances in his eyes, and Bilbo is too exhausted to lie, and too unhappy to spare Thorin.

His voice is barely more than a rasp. “I’m dying, Thorin.”

Something flutters in the King’s eyes. His grip grows lax, allowing Bilbo to sink back onto his bed of gold and jewels, while Fili pales. Somebody begins shouting his name, Thorin’s eyes clear and wide, and he reaches out, and now his hands are warm and soft and gentle.

“Bilbo?” he asks, “Bil -”

The blackness is quicker.

* * *

“Bilbo? Bilbo, can you hear me?” Warm fingers close around his hand, and he’s cold, so terribly cold, and a dull pain throbs behind his temples. 

“Bilbo?”

Wearily Bilbo opens his eyes and finds himself staring at a familiar, cracked ceiling. Layers of blankets have been piled on him, high enough to smother, and yet he still feels cold.

“Oh, thank Mahal,” the shadow leans back. “He’s awake!” 

Footsteps aproach, though Bilbo cannot make out individual faces. He blinks, but his vision remains hazy, and already exhaustion is seeping into his bones. He’d rather just return to sleep.

And perhaps he drifts off again, because the next time he opens his eyes, the shadow over him is broader, taller. When he squints, he can make out the clear blue of Thorin’s eyes. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin calls him. “Bilbo, what is wrong with you?”

Nothing, Bilbo wants to say. He’s only so very, very tired, and the world has grown so grey and dull and he’s exhausted of it. 

“Is there anything we can do? Bilbo!”

And he sounds so pained, that Bilbo gathers whatever strength remains to him for a reply. “Nothing… there’s … nothing to do … just let me rest.”

“What is happening to you? Bilbo, please! Oin says you’re anaemic, though you have no injury. Your nose keeps bleeding, Dwalin told me - please, Bilbo, what is going on?”

For a moment Bilbo’s vision refocuses. He can see Thorin’s face clearly, and the haze has vanished from his eyes. Instead those beautiful eyes search out his own with quiet despair. 

But Bilbo can only shake his head.

* * *

“The men of the Lake shall have their due,” Thorin promises as he steps out of Erebor’s gate to treat with Bard and Thranduil. He stands tall, the crown of Erebor on his head, and the company solemnly behind him. “And you shall find shelter in the mountain should the wizard’s grim prediction come true.”

Gandalf nods emphatically from the sideline. 

“I would -” Thranduil begins, but Thorin holds up a hand.

“I offer to return the white gems. But I would ask a favor in return, of Gandalf and of you.”

Gandalf straightens (he must have noted Bilbo’s and Oin’s absence). Thranduil purses his lips. 

“One of my own has fallen sick,” Thorin states. “He may be dying, and we know of no cure. So ask a token of good faith, I would ask for your help. And I promise, any help given will be generously rewarded.”

* * *

For Bilbo all is a haze. Light and shadow dance before him, sing in familiar and unfamiliar voices. He does not recognize the words or the languages. Sometimes his body burns, sometimes it shivers.

He does not know if days or years pass, but he is waiting for the end.

And then he wakes up.

His vision is slightly hazy, and some dizziness remains. But the darkness has receded, his body no longer appears to be shutting down. He moves his fingers, shifts his weight - and no spike of pain races through his head. Instead some strength seems to have returned to him.

He doesn’t know how he knows. But Bilbo realizes that he is no longer dying.

* * *

“Have you found it?” Bilbo asks of Thorin days later. The great battle had turned into a siege as men and elves had retreated inside the mountain. Yet the timely arrival of Dain and Gandalf’s interesting friends (Beorn and the eagles), they had defeated the orcs at quite minimal losses.

Bilbo has slept through it all. 

He still does not know what was done to heal him - and his body yet struggles to regain his strength - but everyday it is a bit easier, he can stay awake a little longer and maybe one day soon he will be able to walk outside on his own feet instead of having to rely on the dwarves to carry him.

“Hmm?” Thorin asks, looking up from the documents in his lap. He’s a frequent visitor, often bringing work just to sit with Bilbo. 

“The Arkenstone.”

“Oh,” Thorin’s face falls. “Yes. In fact Dwalin found it right after you collapsed.”

“Ah, that’s good, then.”

“Perhaps. Though I was thinking to return it to the mountain - it seemed like an ill omen.”

“Isn’t it a symbol of your divine right to rule? I would think that is rather important.”

Thorin sighs. “And yet for this symbol I nearly sacrificed my kin, my friends, and you.”

“My … sickness has nothing to do with the symbol. It runs in the family; has done for generations. It’s not pleasant but -”

“Hush, Master Burglar. Had my obsession with the stone not blinded me, I would have take note of your condition much earlier, and no symbol - no matter how precious - is worth that much.”

Blood rises to Bilbo’s face and the covers feel rather warm all of a sudden. But he’s happy - happy to have Thorin’s affections, happy to be alive to see this - so he leans forward and takes Thorin’s hand. 

“Thank you for saving me,” he whispers.

And Thorin smiles in return and turns his hand so they’re holding onto each other. “I would have done anything. Anything. I am only glad that I was given this chance.”

 


	50. Thorin's Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five Times Thorin put his clothes (coat) on Bilbo, and one time Bilbo did that himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fluff with a slice of angst. Also inspired by chatting with lovely people over on tumblr! :3

**1**

They're three days out of Bree and it's been a warm and sunny spring day. Having set out just after daybreak the company of Thorin Oakenshield has covered many miles, and when they discover a conveniently located copse of trees, Thorin allows his company to halt there for the night. All are in good cheer despite their sweaty clothing, and the mood improves when, after dinner, Bofur discovers a small river passing nearby.

The sun is already setting when many of the company wander over to the water. Gloin, Bombur, Bifur, and Nori cast out fishing rods, while Kili and Fili dive into the stream with loud splashing. Dwalin follows them at a more dignified pace, while Thorin is content to watch them from a vantage point. He glances over, wondering for a moment where their elusive wizard and burglar went.

The former remains missing, but Thorin catches sight of Master Baggins flinging out his own makeshift fishing rod (and it's a bit of a clever contraption, Thorin has to allow that. Perhaps their burglar is not quite as ill-suited to travel as Thorin initially thought. Still, being able to construct a fishing rod will not help him against a dragon).

So Thorin turns his gaze west, watches the sun go down, and relax in the relative safety of these lands. A peace that will likely not last, but tonight he can lean back, shed his coat and armor and enjoy the cooling air on his skin.

Well, at least until a loud splash, louder laughter, and sputtering disrupt it.

Thorin looks over to see Kili standing in knee-high water, bent over and howling with laughter, while Fili, also chuckling, helps a soaked hobbit out of the river.

"You were looking so lovingly at the water..." Fili explains, and Thorin wonders if his nephews will ever grow up.

“Some things are best admired from afar, Master Dwarf,” the burglar snipes back, wringing an excess of river water from his drenched jacket. The clothes cling to his frame, heavy with water, and as Thorin watches Bilbo shivers.

Something in his chest twinges and he looks away. At least, despite his complaining, Master Baggins does not appear truly angry. Or hurt. 

***

Hours later, Thorin, close to dozing off already, registers a strange, clicking noise. It comes fast, quickens, and then stops for a moment before resuming. His sleep-addled brain needs a moment to recognize that he is hearing teeth chattering - and even before looking Thorin has a fair idea who is responsible.

For a moment Thorin thinks about turning over, closing his eyes, and ignoring the issue.

Then he remembers that a sick hobbit may actually slow them down (and despite his words to Gandalf, Thorin would actually feel responsible since his nephews' prank led to their burglar getting soaked). The lads are blissfully asleep - Thorin ought to wake them and let them deal with this. Though knowing their creativity, it may end with their burglar on fire, and Thorin doubts Gandalf would be very forgiving.

Also years of trying with mixed success to wake Fili and Kili early make him decide settling this himself will be easier.

With a groan Thorin sits up. He fumbles in the dark for a moment - it's a cloudless night, and the moon is bright, so once his eyes have gotten used to it he can see fairly well even without a fire - and grasps his fur coat. To him the night is warm to sleep without coat or blanket and the breeze feels comfortable rather than cold. But he knows men are more sensitive to the cold than dwarves and perhaps the same is true for hobbits. So Thorin stands up and marches over to where their burglar is curled up on his bedroll at the outskirts of their small camp.

He’s not even close to sleeping.

"Master dwarf?" Bilbo asks, climbing to his feet unsteadily at the dwarf’s approach. He's not been asleep, and shivers in the cooler night air. Thorin can see his warmer coat and vest hanging from a tree branch to dry - leaving the hobbit in a damp shirt.

"You're cold," Thorin states and holds out his furcoat. "Wear this and get some sleep."

Bilbo blinks owlishly at the proffered item. "... what?"

"Wear it," Thorin insists. Ideally before the night is out so they both can get some sleep, he adds in his mind.

"Oh," Bilbo murmurs in surprise and reaches out to take the coat. "Thank you."

He slips to coat over his shoulders without any more protests. It's too large on him, the hem sliding over the ground, and the sleeves covering his fingertips. With a wry smile, Bilbo pulls it close over his chest, until only his face remains free, framed by fur - he looks almost adorable and before Thorin can wonder just where this impression came from, Bilbo graces him with a small smile.

"It's very warm," he says. "Thank you."

“Yes… get some sleep.”

It takes Thorin quite a while to sleep that night. And for some reason the vision of Bilbo smiling up at him, wrapped in Thorin's coat, follows him into his dreams.

**2**

Summer is passing and the higher reaches of the mountains remain cold throughout the year. The cold breeze soothes the aches of Thorin's battered body as he sits upright against a boulder, watching as his companions set up camp. The wizard has vanished, promising to return with food soon, while the company gathers firewood and water and tends to their wounds.

The goblin caves were harsh on all of them and the confrontation with Azog has shaken many to their bones. Thorin sees how some of his companions only now realize what they signed up for. That death may very well come for them sooner rather than later. It is a miracle they all survived - and half of the way yet lies ahead of them. Yet a part of Thorin wishes he could have sheltered them, all of them just a little longer.

His eyes wander over to the curled up figure of their burglar. Bilbo sits on a log, his worn pack on the ground next to him, arms wrapped around his knees and eyes staring ahead, unfocused. He’s shown bravery beyond anyone’s wildest expectations – beyond what they deserved, in light of their prior treatment of him.

Thorin cannot quite shake the guilt for that.

The hobbit is shivering, he notices. Whether from shock or the cool air, Thorin does not know. But while he cannot undo what happened, he can do something for Bilbo now. He stands, suppresses a groan as the movement tugs on his wounds, and gathers his abandoned coat.

Bilbo does not notice his approach until Thorin stands almost directly behind him.

"You look cold, Master Baggins," he says and gently lays his coat over Bilbo shoulders. "This ought to help."

Bilbo gratefully reaches up to pull the lapels of the coat shut before his chest. "Thank you," he murmurs. Then his eyebrows pull together in a frown. "Won't you be cold?"

"We dwarves don't feel the cold quite so much," Thorin replies. "Also, whatever magic Gandalf used, I'm feeling warm right now."

Bilbo chuckles at that, and Thorin thinks he has a nice laugh. He does also look rather cute in Thorin's coat - smaller and rounder than usual, and the way only the tips of his fingers buried into the thick fur remain visible makes Thorin's heart skip a beat.

He clears his throat - with the flush rising in his cheeks he's more than feeling warm. "Keep the coat for now," he says. "It will do you more good than me, Master Baggins."

"Thank you. And please call me Bilbo."

**3**

"I was wondering where uncle's coat had gotten to," Kili comments as Bilbo marches into Beorn's abode, Thorin’s cloak wrapped around him. Thorin's heart skips, and he almost chokes on the bread he is eating.

"Little bunny, did you find the washing spot?" Beorn inquires calmly, ignoring the giggling dwarves. Thorin's own cheeks are running rather hot, and he's glad it's late in the morning already - many of their company are out already.

Bilbo smiles at Beorn. "The sheep were most helpful with that, thank you."

Now that Thorin looks he can see a fresh shine to Bilbo’s curls – they seem golden under the sun. And as Bilbo walks toward the table, the hem of Thorin's coat trails over the ground behind him like a gown train, while he primly lifts the front hem to not step on it. He does cut a regal figure - and Thorin's vision adds gems, jewelry, and a crown to the picture.

Amazing. Thorin’s cheeks turn even redder.

"It quite suits you," Fili comments with a wide grin.

Bilbo shrugs. "It's too large. But after I carried it all the way from the carrock, I thought keeping it one more day while I see to getting my own clothes cleaned won't hurt."

"Does that mean..." Kili begins, scandalized, but Beorn sets a pitcher of milk down before him, and effectively switches the topic. Bilbo climbs to his seat, unimpressed, and the coat falls away to reveal a bare leg. Thorin promptly chokes on his milk.

***

Later, Thorin is sorting through his meager belongings when somebody knocks on the door to his room.

"Come in," he calls without turning around. He hears the oversized door open without a sound, followed by bare feet on wood. Bilbo slips in with a smile, Thorin coat wrapped around him.

"I wanted to return your coat," the hobbit announces and Thorin turns around with his eyebrows raised. Bilbo had spoken about washing his clothes, and all he can see peaking out of the coat are his bare toes, fingertips, and face, so -

Bilbo allows the coat to slide off his right shoulder, revealing unblemished skin.

"Your clothes -" Thorin stammers, the blood surging to his face.

He can’t mean to take off the coat if he is -

Bilbo doubles over laughing.

Without further ado he pulls the coat open to reveal an oversized tunic that is large enough around the collar to keep slipping from his shoulder and reaches down to his knees.

"Beorn's animals let me borrow this," he explains, gesturing to the rough-spun shirt. "Your coat is far more stylish, though I think it's about time I returned it to you."

Thorin's heart still races and he shakes his head. "You can keep it," he mumbles, trying to tell himself to calm down. He shouldn’t be reacting like this to the notion of seeing Bilbo naked – they’ve been traveling together for long enough. Nothing he hasn’t seen before.

Only -

"It's yours," Bilbo replies. His smile turns warm. "But thank you for letting me borrow it for so long. Though I suppose I must have looked ridiculous in it."

"Not at all," Thorin replies before he can think about it and his heart promptly picks up speed again.

"It suits you much better, though," Bilbo returns. "Makes you look dashing. Heroic. Like some ... legendary warrior."

And Thorin notices that Bilbo is blushing, too. Warmth spreads through his chest unexpectedly. "Well, if I am one, you are one as well," he firmly declares.

Bilbo looks to the side. "What kind of legend would that be?" he asks bashfully.

"One with a happy ending, I hope," Thorin replies.

**4**

As Bilbo shivers and coughs in Laketown, Thorin badly misses his coat. He has missed it since the moment they climbed from the barrels, soaked and cold, but now he misses it more. The thing he can wrap around Bilbo's now too slender shoulders is yet another fraying, thin blanket and hope it will suffice to provide a little warmth.

Bilbo, still brave even if sick, smiles and mumbles a thank you.

And when the blankets have run out and Bilbo still trembles, Thorin pulls Bilbo against his chest and keeps him there until his shivers have stilled and their hearts beat as one.

**5**

(There is a moment in Erebor when Thorin slips a black, gold-trimmed fur coat over Bilbo's shoulders. The garment nearly swallows him and Thorin's eyes devour him, and Bilbo is glad to shrug it off later, claiming it keeps tripping him.

He never tripped over the hem of Thorin’s blue coat.)

**+1**

Those glum memories are far, far from Bilbo's mind as he picks up Thorin's abandoned tunic from the floor and slides it over his head. He knows his husband (who once again broods over documents in his office next door even though he should come to bed) likes seeing Bilbo in his clothes. And Bilbo does have a soft spot for cuddling in Thorin’s coats or wandering about in only one of his husband’s tunics.

Bilbo would enjoy seeing Thorin in his clothes, too, but so far physics have denied that chance. However, Bilbo is contemplating ordering a set of his clothes in Thorin's size just for the heck of it.

Tonight, he tugs the rich blue fabric of Thorin's tunic over his belly and hips. The hem of the tunic ends in the middle of his thighs, and the wide collar slips from his shoulder. This will hopefully distract Thorin from his work, Bilbo thinks to himself with smile.

He knocks before opening the door.

Thorin looks up from his documents - and freezes for a moment. Bilbo can see his eyes widen, before he sets aside the parchment and directs a slowly widening smile at Bilbo. "I suppose it's late?" he asks.

Bilbo saunters over (and if he exaggerates the movement of his hips, well...). "Yes. You know, I come back and all I find are your clothes. But no Thorin..."

"One might think you rather like my clothes," Thorin comments as he stands up from his chair and leans over, reaching out to caress Bilbo’s cheek..

"I do," Bilbo replies, "but I like them better on the floor."

Thorin's grin widens and his cheeks redden. "That can be arranged."

 

Fin

 


	51. This is not a victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo does not survive the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another [tumblr ficlet](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/138420505336/this-is-not-a-victory) based on the posts by [buriedbilbo](www.buriedbilbo.tumblr.com) and the [ amazing art](french-unicorn.tumblr.com/post/123717179330/bilbo-dies-aus-are-my-favourite-evil-laugh) by [french-unicorn](www.french-unicorn.tumblr.com).
> 
> Heads up for violence, pain, and character death.

A gust of freezing wind blows over the frozen river. Thorin shudders, and finally tears his gaze from Azog’s dead body. Orcrist pins the pale form to the ground; Thorin forced the blade deep into the ice, and now finds he can’t quite pull it out. 

He takes a deep breath and the icy air burns in his lungs. His body yet throbs with battle fever, though the heat in his blood begins to abate. The sounds of battle coming from below have faded, and the world up here has been returned to utter silence. The dead bodies of numerous orcs lie on the ice around them, their black blood staining the clear white.  Thorin looks down and finds himself leaving bright red footprints – 

The cut to his leg still bleeds sluggishly, and he sways on his feet for a moment. Azog’s blade caught him across the thigh. It’s not a deep cut, certainly not fatal, though now it begins to sting as life reasserts itself to Thorin’s fatigued body. 

He turns his back, wondering numbly what to do. 

Azog is dead. 

He’d hoped for this for so long, yet now it leaves Thorin staring blankly across the frozen expanse. Erebor is reclaimed – but what about his actions before, what about the fallen? Where are his nephews, where are his companions? What will happen now?

Swaying like a drunk man, Thorin makes his way back toward the crumbled tower. But the spot where he remembers Fili falling is empty. Rusty lined cracks run through the ice, and no, Azog stabbing Fili was no nightmare. A part of Thorin wants to believe it was, but that moment has burned itself onto the back of eyelids. 

He will –

Azog’s dead. 

Thorin forces himself to take another, burning breath.  If Fili’s body is gone, there is a chance his nephew survived. He doubts the orcs would have removed the body – more likely Kili and Dwalin and Bilbo carried him to safety.  
And with some luck they remained in safety, too. 

Too much blood already stains Thorin’s hands. Death would have been easier then dealing with the aftermath of what he did while under the dragon-sickness. And he’d not expected to walk from this alive, had only wanted to see Azog perish, and then would have been more than happy to close his own ice.  
But here he is, the last one standing on this frozen scene of desolation. 

The wind tears at his clothes and hair, both heavy with dried blood and filth, and he begins to move again. Boulders seem to be tied to his feet, and each step takes gargantuan effort. The other side of the river isn’t coming any closer. 

And it feels as if it takes an eternity, but Thorin reaches the crumbled staircase leading down from Ravenhill. His head swim as he climbs down the first flight of stairs. The snow is stained by black blood; a layer of frost covers the dead orcs. 

But there are droplets of red staining the snow, too, and Thorin’s heart clenches. Who was hurt here, he wonders? Dwalin, Fili, Kili, and Bilbo should have been gone. Who …

He staggers down another flight of stairs, surveys unmoving bodies sprawled across another ruined building. The color has been bleached from all of them, and perhaps that is what makes the red stand out so brightly. 

Thorin blinks. 

Red?

Another gust of wind blows past him, and that is dark blond curls moving with it. The face underneath has grown pale, as all around him, and for a moment Thorin flounders, his mind struggling to comprehend what he’s seeing. 

Then the situation slams into him.

He stumbles over, disregarding the uneven ground, the patches of ice, the painful tug on his own wounds. But that unmoving figure is Bilbo, and he should have realized at once; he’s so much smaller than the orcs. He half-lies, half-leans against a crumbled wall; dried blood covering his forehead and matting his curls, while brighter red stains the snow underneath him. The worn blue coat is darker in some places then others, and Thorin’s stomach twists.

Bilbo doesn’t stir. 

Thorin’s knees give out. He drops to the ground, breath stuttering. His hand hovers over Bilbo’s body, afraid to touch him (and find him cold and gone and his world is already crumbling. Bilbo looks too small lying here, so terribly far from his home. What was Gandalf thinking, what was Thorin thinking; they should have never let him come -)

Then he catches sight of a small cloud of fog rising from Bilbo’s lips and he realizes the hobbit still breathes. Thorin surges forward, feels for the pulse – and feels a slow, shallow beat under his fingers. Bilbo’s skin is frighteningly pale, almost ashen already, and Thorin anxiously studies him for injuries. And there are many, too many –

A big gash on his head, scrapes on his cheeks, cuts on his hands. A deep cut near his collarbone, just above the mithril – and a horrendous gash on his leg. It cuts deep, into the bone, and Thorin hisses. Bilbo’s trousers are stained black from blood; the foot has turned purple. 

Thorin curses. 

Bilbo needs help now. 

He reaches out to gather Bilbo in his arms, when the hobbit stirs. Bilbo makes a soft sound, somewhere between a pained whine and a groan; his eyelashes flutter. Thorin hurries to draw Bilbo against him, shelter him from the cold at least, but the eyes that open are dazed and stare toward the sky. The body in his arms shudders weakly and then just lies there, lax.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks; anxiety building up in his chest.

The hobbit remains unresponsive and another gust of wind blows past, reminding Thorin painfully of the time he’s losing. Bilbo’s eyelids flutter once again, and Thorin leans forward until he’s practically curled around Bilbo. 

“Bilbo? Bilbo, please.”

“… Thorin?” It’s barely even a whisper. Or maybe just his imagination. But Bilbo’s glazed eyes move slowly, and he struggles to focus. 

“Bilbo?” Thorin pleads. “Bilbo, are you with me?”

Bilbo makes another soft sound and stirs a little. Thorin’s grip tightens automatically. “Bilbo?”

“… you,” Bilbo mumbles, “I thought…”  A harsh cough cuts him off abruptly. It jerks his body violently, and fear sinks deep into Thorin’s veins. Blood splatters from Bilbo’s lips, dark and hot, and despair assails Thorin. 

This – 

The dark, terrible realization lurks just outside of his conscious thought. But he knows, he already knows. Knew the moment he saw the wound.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmurs again, moving weakly. His eyes, dull and filled with pain that should have never been there, search for Thorin. “Thorin, I … I never wanted … I’m sorry… I…”

“Hush, Bilbo, hush,” Thorin forces out. Hot liquid wells up in his eyes; his heart is being torn apart. Bilbo should not be here, should have never been forced so far from home, and its all his fault. He pushes to his feet, staggering momentarily before setting off.

“Just hold on,” he tells the hobbit in his arms. “I’ll bring you to safety. Oin will take care of you. Everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

Just please hold on. Even if it hurts, even if the darkness beckons, please. 

“… ‘m sorry,” Bilbo echoes, confusion flickering over his face. 

“No, Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts as he forces his stiff body forward. “No, you don’t have to apologize for a thing. I was blind, utterly blind, and you were right. I’m sorry for how I treated you, and if I could take back my words and actions I would do so in a heartbeat.”

Bilbo blinks again, slowly. His brow ceases as he tries to process the words, and all Thorin wants to do is take the hurt away. Smooth out those lines, wipe away the dirt and heal the wounds. He quickens his steps. 

“…glad I …” Bilbo murmurs against Thorin’s chest. 

“Bilbo, no,” Thorin returns, not caring that his voice hitches and trembles. “It is us who are grateful for your help and company, and we have treated you poorly for it. Bilbo, if I – if there was anything –“

Anything I could do, I would.

Without hesitation, without doubt. But there are no enemies to slay, and the one remaining battle they are slowly but certainly losing. Bright blood keeps dripping to the snow despite the tourniquet, but even so, Bilbo’s pallor has grown bloodless. Deadly.

“… you have your home back,” Bilbo murmurs quietly. A shadow of a smile ghosts across his face.

Thorin blinks back tears. “Yes, yes. We reclaimed it thanks to you, Bilbo.”

A frown crosses Bilbo’s face once more. Another bout of coughs wrecks his body. Thorin presses his lips together, looks ahead. The tents before Erebor are still so very, very far away.

And even then – 

“… Laketown?” Bilbo murmurs. His eyes are drooping again, and fear stabs Thorin into the stomach. No, he wants to scream, no. Please once, may the fates be kind. 

“We’ll make amends,” Thorin promises. “I’ll see to it that Bard and everyone else get their share of the treasure. They’ll get all the help we can offer.” 

If he’d not allowed the sickness to take hold. If he’d been on guard. If he’d – then perhaps they wouldn’t be here, and he wouldn’t be carrying Bilbo’s body from a battle he should have never been part of. 

Bilbo smiles; a quiet expression on his colorless face. “Ahh, Thorin, you… you have always… been so good. Your heart… is … rather beautiful, I think. … and had I time I might have … liked to stay.” His eyes crinkle, and Thorin’s heart cries out in pain. 

“You will, Bilbo, you will,” he promises, words rushing forward. “Stay as long as you want. Erebor will always be open to you; will offer you a home.”

“Stay… see Erebor prosper,” Bilbo mumbles. “See you rule… and all be well…”

“Bilbo, you will –“

One last exhale, and then the body in his arms grows entirely still. 

Thorin’s steps falter.

“No,” he murmurs, “No, please, Bilbo –“ 

The body in his arms doesn’t stir. Even the subtle tremors, the shallow rise and fall of his chest – all has ceased. Instead, Bilbo’s face now looks relaxed, at peace, though the pain has left visible lines. The blood, the injuries, the sunken cheeks, the shadows underneath his eyes – those things ought not to have come to pass, ought to have never happened.

“Bilbo.” His voice trembles. 

“Bilbo, please.”

“Bilbo, don’t -. Please, don’t, don’t do this. Bilbo, we’re there soon. Were down and then they’ll take care of you. Oin will fix you. Or Gandalf – he’ll be glad to help. But, please- please don’t –“

In the cold gust of wind, Bilbo’s hair is the only thing that stirs.  

Thorin sways on his feet. The camp is not far now, but the body in his arms is still. Too still. Without breath or heartbeat or any sign of life, and that cannot be it. Bilbo had just been speaking. He’d been badly hurt but alive.

He cannot be dead!

“Please Bilbo, wake up,” Thorin pleads as the strength drains from his legs and he sinks to his knees. “Please don’t be dead.” His vision swims and it doesn’t matter. There is no need for urgency any longer. He’s late, too late, and he can never make up for this. Bilbo will not look at him another time and tell him all’s forgiven.

Bilbo will never look at him again.

“Please, one last miracle. One last time, for me. Please, Bilbo. I will do anything, but please, please, open your eyes. Just one last time. Please.”

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut, buries his face in Bilbo’s blood-matted curls. Underneath the dried blood some warmth remains, and a part of Thorin desperately wishes for Bilbo to open his eyes, to flinch, to scream –

Anything. If it only brought him back to life.

“Thorin,” a new voice breaks through the haze, and only now Thorin hears the footsteps hurrying up the stairs, “Thorin, are you alright?”

He pulls Bilbo’s body closer against his own, blinks away the tears and sees a tall figure clad in grey hurry toward him. The wizard looks haggard; his cloak has been torn and stained, and he’s out of breath.

“Thorin –“

And then Gandalf sees the small body Thorin holds protectively.

“Bilbo!”

Anger and hope war in Thorin’s chest, because Gandalf should have been there. Gandalf should have looked after Bilbo, should have protected him. Should have never brought him along. 

“Save him,” Thorin mutters, his voice coming out choked and far to silent, and Gandalf staggers. “Save him!” he roars again. 

“What happened?” Gandalf asks and hurriedly crouches before Thorin. “Where is he –“ His hand halts just over Bilbo’s shoulder. “Thorin, is he –“

“Save him!” Thorin shouts. He barely even feels the tears on his face or the wounds on his own body. “There must be something you can do!”

Gandalf’s face falls in grief and his hand sinks down on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Thorin, I can’t-“

“There must be some spell! Some sort of magic!” Despair tears apart Thorin’s soul, and he can’t, he can’t allow Bilbo’s story to end here. This cannot be the end. “Please! He came here for you! You must save him!”

“Thorin,” Gandalf interrupts gently, though his face now has gained deep lines, “I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do.”

“No!” Thorin shouts and draws Bilbo back; out of the wizard’s reach. “You brought him here! You should have protected him! He was with you when the battle started! Why did you not look out for him?”

“I tried to,” Gandalf replies and his shoulders bow under guilt and grief, “Yet I had others to see after, and he snuck away.”

“You should have looked after him better than that!” Thorin accuses. “He deserved better!” Not just from Gandalf, but from Thorin, too. From all of them – for his courage, his bravery, and his steadfast loyalty even in the darkest hour. 

“He should not die here,” Thorin mutters. The last bit of hope in his heart flickers and dies, and he can only look down at Bilbo’s peaceful face, for the world has ceased to matter.

“No,” Gandalf agrees wearily, “He should not have.”

The wizard sighs. “If there was any magic that could bring him back, I would not hesitate to use it. But Bilbo is beyond our reach now. I’m sorry.”

Sorry is not enough, Thorin thinks. Not when Bilbo can’t even hear their words. Not when he will never be able to tell Bilbo what he meant to Thorin either. So Thorin tightens his hold on the cooling body while Gandalf sits silently next to him. 

Erebor is won. 

But to Thorin, the battle was lost.


	52. Progressive Conflict Solutions (featuring Mushroom Stew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company reclaimes Erebor in early summer and no orcs ever arrive. Since however some tensions between men, elves, and dwarves exist, Gandalf decideds a hobbit children's game constitutes just the conflict solution needed. 
> 
> It does work. Then there is a party. 
> 
> And then there is the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has roughly two parts, first is the twister and was already posted on [tumblr](http://paranoidfridge.tumblr.com/post/146905306522/progressive-conflict-solutions), second is Dwalin figuring out what happened the night before and where everybody disappeared to (and hasn't been posted anywhere before). 
> 
> Thus: nothing serious, some innuendo, nudity, etc.
> 
> And a BIG THANK YOU to the fabulous seaweedredandbrown for being a fantastic and fast beta!!!

“I'd never thought it would come to this,” Bilbo groans as Thorin moves his left hand from green to yellow, which prompts even more of his weight to come and rest diagonally across Bilbo’s lower back. Not too mention that the right side of Bilbo’s hip now digs directly into Thorin’s groin. It's not  _ exactly  _ comfortable. 

But neither is looking down at Legolas’ leg, which passes over Bilbo’s left hand on red, but runs below Bilbo’s right shoulder, the one stretched to reach green.

“It was your suggestion,” Ori reminds him with a pitiful whine, from somewhere beyond Legolas. All Bilbo can see of the poor dwarf is a shaking hand below Legolas’ stomach in his peripheral vision, though it is almost completely hidden by Bain’s arm. 

“I didn't mean it literally,” Bilbo hisses back, but then Kili cheerfully calls out: “Uncle Dain - get your left foot onto red!”, which is followed by a curse, a loud clamor, and more cursing. 

“Don't touch me there!” Gloin roars.

“Your face is the closest red I could reach,” Dain snipes back.

“You should have known it would end like this,” Ori mutters, voice carrying easily past Legolas’ stomach and onto Bilbo’s ears. “Gandalf was listening.”

And so were Thranduil, Thorin, Bard, and a whole slew of other people, attentive and eager as Bilbo explained how the Shire used games to reconnect different clans after quarrels. Quaint methods for quaint people, he'd thought, especially when he'd talked about that one coordination game, more popular with children than adults anyway. 

It worked great with turbulent fauntlings, but he'd hoped for Gandalf to find a more adequate way of forging new bonds among these (formerly) grand realms. He probably should have known better.

That’s how and why they now find themselves  on a field, with unevenly painted blots of color merrily dotting the ground, and two makeshift wheels being spun by a maniacally grinning Kili. Next to him, Tauriel sports an expression of quiet, deep glee - and whoever decided to appoint Sigrid as overseer seriously underestimated her penchant for mischief. 

So far, she has personally led everybody who failed to hit the right color off to punishment. None of them - neither Fili, nor Bofur, not even the two random fishermen and that one elf who tried to default - have been seen again.

Not that Bilbo is currently seeing much, except legs, arms, Thorin’s hair, and a bit of blue sky.

“Bard, left foot to purple!” Tauriel orders, and Bilbo hears more groaning and shifting. He's long lost sight of the wheels. Or rather, ever since he attempted to at least excuse himself from participating in the game (like Gandalf, who merely pointed out that as a Maiar he’d have to pass, that cheating deserter), he quickly became buried under a pile of bodies.

“Bain, right arm on yellow!” Kili calls out, and Bilbo hears Bain curse before he carefully begins to shift his weight. Bilbo sees Legolas’ legs tremble. If even an elf has issues maintaining balance, they must be a hair’s breadth away from complete collapse.

And, maybe, salvation.

Bilbo's contemplations of mutiny are cut short by Kili gleefully exclaiming “that's not yellow!”, and Bain shouting “I can't reach yellow!”. Sigrid, in her cool, hair-raising no-nonsense voice announces, “Bain, you're out.” 

“Thank god,” Bain mutters, and begins the no less complicated process of untangling himself. 

“I didn't know you could get out that easily.” Thorin mutters and his breath tickles Bilbo’s ear. That makes his groin tingle, but that could also be a result from the rather unusual strain on his muscles. 

“Get your hand away from my ass!” Gloin howls from somewhere outside of Bilbo’s currently rather limited field of vision (last time he saw him, Gloin was going down in a tangle with Bain, Legolas, Ori, and two elves). 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bain mutters, and Bilbo can hear his footsteps vanish into the distance. That lucky boy -

“Well, now as for your penalty,” Sigrid greets him and Bilbo manages to marginally twist his head toward Thorin (and still only sees hair and chin and lips). 

“There is that,” he says toward Thorin. 

He can see the King under the Mountain swallow in response. Or rather, he sees Thorin’s adam’s apple bob, which is also doing something to his groin.

“It would appear,” Ori glumly summarises from somewhere behind Bilbo, “advisable to try to stay in the game as long as possible.”

“How does it end again?” Bard calls over, while beyond the field Sigrid is busy telling a rapidly paling Bain about the penalty while Kili nods wildly and Tauriel’s eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“Either until everybody has made a mistake,” Bilbo grunts out (the strain on his stomach muscles is growing noticeable. Especially since Thorin seems to be resting quite a bit of his own weight on Bilbo’s lower back.), “or when somebody managed to bring everyone down.”

“They can’t punish everybody at once, can they?” Gloin inquires.

“I volunteer,” Ori pipes up from where he almost elegantly sprawls stomach-up over two elvish guards who have become so entwined it's nearly impossible to tell where one begins and the other stops.

“You wanna get a penalty?” Kili calls over, eyes alight. 

“Noooo,” Oro groans.

“Why,” Bard grunts out, “why did you suggest this, Master Baggins?” 

“I think it's working wonderfully,” Gandalf chimes in from the sideline where he is enjoying a chilled ale together with everybody else watching -  that traitor. 

So far, Bilbo thinks, this strategy works wonderfully in uniting elves, dwarves and men against scheming wizards and their helpers. 

“Alright, next up, Thranduil,” Kili announces and Bilbo is still wondering what kind of magic Gandalf must have employed to actually make the regal elf king participate (alright, he was there. He did hear Gandalf arguing about setting an example and about how it was impossible to force several hundreds of elves to play a game, so if those several hundreds saw their King and other high-ranking personnel compete, it would have the same effect).

“Green. Right foot.” 

And then a long leg, clad in a smooth leather boot, shoves itself right under Bilbo’s chest. 

He groans. Thorin groans. Somebody giggles since the change in position has left Thranduil with his legs spread with  one of Bard’s arms awkwardly reaching over his hip, and the other going underneath the elves’ leg,  meaning his face is hovering just above Thranduil’s butt.

Bilbo belatedly realises that it’s Thorin who’s giggling.

Really, he thinks. Weren't they supposed to set a good example on how to work out differences?

Then again, this might have been a lost cause ever since Gandalf decided hobbit party games were the way to go about it. 

Bilbo decides he can just rest the weight of his upper body on Thranduil’s leg and that isn't too terrible. 

“Braga, right hand to blue,” Kili calls out.

Bilbo can't even see what happens. He only sees Legolas twitch. Ori yelps. Then the pile of knotted beings comes to a stop again. 

“Now,” Gandalf cheerfully declares, “this looks like quite the moment to remember. How about a quick commemorative sketch?” 

“I say,” Dain groans, “we murder the wizard and burn the evidence.” 

“Agreed,” Bard mutters.

“You have my axe,” Gloin chimes in.

“And my bow,” Legolas adds. 

“I have suggestions for games Gandalf can play,” Bilbo promises darkly. 

Naturally, that is when his turn comes up. “Bilbo,” Kili calls out cheerfully and Tauriel's order follows swiftly. “Left foot to green.”

Bilbo groans. His left leg is somewhere underneath Thorin where he can barely see it. Still, with a near impossible amount of effort he manages both to twist his head enough to actually see the nearest green blot  AND manoeuvre his leg into the right position. Not without rubbing his thigh quite a bit against Thorin’s groin, naturally. 

“Good, good,” Kili observes with a wide grin. “Gloin next!”

“You watch what you’re doing lad,” the warrior promises, “else I'll take care of that smug grin of yours myself.”

“You're threatening your prince?” A new voice calls cheerfully. Bilbo can't see Fili, but it's a good sign that he has returned after having been the first to lose his balance and rather spectacularly faceplant onto the ground. 

“Warranted,” Gloin shouts back, “since said prince once tried to feed everyone ant soup.”

Dain bursts out laughing, which sends a tremor through everyone barely holding themselves upright. Ori squeaks, Bilbo makes a rather unfortunate sound as well, Bard curses and Kili’s shout of “left hand, yellow,” is lost in the uproar.

“Aye, and after he tried to make sock stew, didn't he?” Dain adds.

Kili sputters, and Tauriel takes mercy on him. “All younglings do that sort of things. Why, I recall Legolas once nearly gave everyone food poisoning with mushroom soup.” 

“You said they were edible!” Legolas protests.

“I also told you I could hear colors after eating one,” Tauriel shouts back. 

This explains so much, Bilbo thinks, about Mirkwood, the elves, and Radagast. This - 

“You -” Legolas begins and raises his arm. 

He never manages to point toward Tauriel. His movement disturbs Dain whose balance was already offset. The dwarf grunts and flops down, which in turn forces Ori to pull his feet up, meaning his weight rests entirely on the two elves. But Legolas flails, and in the process jerks a leg forward... which takes Bilbo’s right arm  along. He’s falling forward before he knows it.

He hits Thranduil’s heel hard, but at least that means his nose doesn't meet the ground. His legs fly out from under him and he knows he hits Thorin as well.  Thranduil wasn't up to bearing a hobbit’s full weight either, since he goes down with a grunt, and takes Bard - last one standing for a split second - with him.

When the dust settles, they are all flat on the ground. But no less entangled.

“Get your foot out of my back,” Braga groans.

“To whoever is currently groping me,” Bard announces to the world at large, “Please stop.”

“Are you alright?” Thorin inquires and a large hand awkwardly pats Bilbo’s hair. 

“For now,” Bilbo grumbles. “I prefer being able to breathe.”

And maybe it's all not very dignified or pleasant - and Bilbo is certain he has gained a few new bruises - but seeing Gloin help up and elf, Ori reach out to Hammer - maybe it was worth it. Maybe settling the old grudges through a silly game did help to dispel some tension. 

Another shift drives Thorin’s groin right against Bilbo’s arse.

It also did, Bilbo thinks, create some new tensions, although he’s actually looking forward to working those out.

First, however, there’s a feast. 

 

* * *

### 

Dwalin wakes to a loud pounding. It comes from inside his head, which is never a good sign. 

Mahal’s hammer, he thinks as he wriggles some life back into his stiff, sore limbs, what happened? Orcs? Goblins? Gloin’s personal brew?

Since he is mostly unharmed, except for a strange blankness of his most recent memories, he suspects the latter. At least, wherever he is, it's dark, and the ground is cold and hard and wonderful and Dwalin is about to close his eyes again - just until the pounding stops - when said pounding grows louder.

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice shouts, “com’on, don't pretend to be dead, you big loaf!”

With a grunt, Dwalin forces his eyes open. He almost closes them right away when he sees, in a puddle of spilled ale before him, a most curious reflection of Nori’s furry legs banging on the iron bars of a cell.

A prison cell. In Erebor. Right.

Dwalin’s half-dead brain deigns to remember retaking the mountain from the dragon, followed by a short but tense moment when elves and men came with demands - then a large feast, once everything had been settled.

A feast where Thorin gave a speech… Everything after that is a collection of blurry images - ale, fireworks, more ale, off key singing, ale, mushroom stew, wild dancing on the tables (and Dwalin really did not need to know Gloin could swing his hips like this), ale, indoor acrobatics, flying clothes, the clicking of handcuffs, people shouting. And somehow he ended up here, on the floor next to Erebor’s dungeons.

“Oi, meathead, anyone home?”

Just for that, Dwalin wants to ignore Nori. 

But who knows what happened. Or what mess Thorin got himself into. 

Dutiful that he is, Dwalin pushes himself up to find that Nori has indeed gained satyr legs, goats’ hooves and all. 

“Mahal’s balls, what happened?” Dwalin bursts out.

Nori pulls a grimace. His hair, Dwalin notices, is also decorated with confetti and ribbons. “Gandalf,” he says and jerks a finger over his shoulder, where a lump of black grey robes is snoring loudly.

Dwalin raises an eyebrow. “He started casting spells at random,” Nori explains. “I think you dragged him in here sometime after he turned Oin into a field shrew.”

“So how did you end up here? And like this?” Dwalin studies him critically. The fact that he can't remember isn't helping, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Nori supported Gandalf’s random applications of magic. 

“He turned me into a goat,” Nori deadpans. “Goats are herd animals. Of course I ended up following him.” 

Dwalin blinks again. This is a bit too much for his poor head to grasp. Speaking of grasping, where did his axes go? 

“So the magic is wearing off?” 

“Gandalf did promise that it would, before he turned Dain into a squirrel and Tauriel into an eagle.” 

Too much, Dwalin decides. Too much for him to handle. Time to find Thorin or Balin - and let them figure out what to do.

“Hey, where are you going?” Nori shouts, rattling the bars again. “At least lemme out!”

Dwalin doesn't stop. “Not until the magic hasn't worn off,” he says, “you could be contagious.”

He tunes out Nori’s exclamations of protest (including a very creative “I chained Thorin to his bed!”). It's not difficult, as he can simply focus on the throbbing of his head instead.  He has some experience in working through overindulgence-caused headaches. Though this does feel slightly different. More painful. And blurry.

Likely, everyone else is out of sorts, then. Meaning he doesn't have to hurry. 

Instead of heading straight for the upper halls, Dwalin turns towards Erebor’s springs. There, he drinks his fill of cold spring water, before opening the door to one of his favourite smaller hot springs...

And immediately closes it again. Cozily snuggled against each other in the water are two white-haired dwarves.  After another careful glance, Dwalin recognises his brother, even with water-logged hair and a bite mark on his shoulder. The other one, a look toward the pile of clothes and the ridiculous amount of beads betrays easily: Dori.

It's not that much of a surprise, Dwalin tells himself as he closes the door again as quietly as possible. Any other day would have been better for this revelation.  


At least, he tells himself as he grumpily stumps upstairs to find Thorin, he didn't see any improper bits.   

Which can't be said for Bombur, who is sprawled on the table in the middle of the feasting hall, stark naked. 

Dwalin lets him rest. If anybody asks, he was never there and did not see anything (or rather, if Bombur’s wife asks; because she has a mean right hook and Dwalin is rather proud of having managed to keep all his teeth so far).

Gloin wasn’t the only one dancing on the tables, his brain decides to remind him. Somebody was waving fabrics. Somebody else throwing salad. Whoever was singing had probably never heard a straight note in their life.

Dwalin cringes and trudges on. Halfway to the next staircase, he comes across a slumped guard in gold-forged parade armor, snoring softly. Likely one of Dain’s, since Dwalin doesn't recognise them.

“You,” he barks, “what are you doing, sleeping?”

The guard jumps with a rather high pitched squeal. Tiny hands emerge from the armor to fiddle with the helmet and wide brown eyes look pleadingly up at Dwalin. 

“Master dwarf,” Bard’s youngest, Tilda, says tearfully, “what happened? What is - oh, I'm so sorry! Please don't be angry with me, Master dwarf.”

Dwalin's anger has since faded into embarrassment. Shouting at little girls, really? 

“No, no, I'm sorry, I thought you were somebody else. I didn't mean to yell at you.”

Tilda’s eyes light up. “Thank you.” Then she looks left and right and a hint of uneasiness sneaks back into her eyes. “You wouldn't know what happened to my da, by any chance? Or Bain, or Sigrid?” 

Dwalin swallows, abruptly very uncomfortably aware of just how vast and empty Erebor currently is. The big hall was deserted, except for Bombur in a truly not child-appropriate position.

“I'm afraid I don't know,” he says. And, because he is a big softy, he decides that, wherever Thorin is, he can probably wait. “How about we go and look for him?”

Tilda is quite happy with that.

And even though Dwalin attempts his best to talk about “safe, child-appropriate” topics, he soon finds that Tilda is far more interested in weapons, battles, and the best way to dismember orcs to keep the discussion on more family-friendly subjects.

“I read that when you slice a major artery, the blood literally sprays out, like a geyser,” Tilda gushes, happily plunking along in the armor Dwalin couldn't convince her to shed. “Does that really happen?”

“Well,” Dwalin stalls, looking for a distraction, before finding one in  Dain twirling past them, only clad in a silk tunic, singing an old drinking song about the beauty of mountains. 

Dwalin hopes he doesn't see them.

His prayers go unanswered. 

“Cousin,” Dain exclaims cheerfully, frolicking toward them, “sing with me!” 

“I'd rather not,” Dwalin declines, inching backward, “As you can see, I also …”

“Oh, wasn't your favorite song the one about working the hammer?” Dain wiggles his eyebrows. Dwalin flushes, and he boxes his cousin, while nodding toward Tilda. 

“Of course, of course,” Dain says, his unreasonable good humor undaunted. “That song about Dorwinion wine? The Rivendell lullaby? Oh no, I know, the  _ Disemboweling Song _ \- that was always your favorite!”

Dwalin groans. Tilda looks at Dain as if she just discovered her new hero. “That sounds amazing,” she gushes. “Can you teach me?”

This, of course, means that Dwalin is now shadowed by two persons cheerfully singing about slicing necks, smashing heads, and hacking off limbs. He hopes Bard won't kill them. (Dwalin will understand if he does, though.)

Which once again raises the question of where Bard actually is. Or anyone else in a position to assume responsibility and, ideally, control of the situation. But with Gandalf passed out in the dungeon, Balin enjoying an intimate tête-à-tête in the hot springs and Dain still drunk on whatever they all had last night, he isn't certain he wants to know the answer.

Especially since his brain provides new memory fragments. They include Kili and Legolas swinging from the chandeliers, indoor fireworks, flickering lights and thick, colorful fog. Bilbo and Thorin huddled in a corner using their mouths for a very different sort of conversation. 

What on earth was in that ale?

“... and then his brain went squish squish squish and the Orc fell dead. The next one snuck up on me, so splat I thought, off with his head,” Dain sings, and Tilda cheerfully echoes “off with his head, off with his head,” in clear, jubilant tones. The stone corridors amplify their voices. 

“Oh, good morning,” somebody interrupts, and, Dwalin spies Radagast’s fur-clad figure loading up his bunny-led sled, set against the outside light of the gate. “That is quite a nice tune you're carrying there.”

“Thank you,” Tilda beams, while Dain gives the Wizard a playful cuff on the arm. “Do you wanna join? The acoustics in the Hall of Kings were always superb!”

“Oh thank you, but I'm afraid I must leave,” Radagast declines. It probably says something that seeing him go means Dwalin is about to lose his only seemingly-sane companion. (Dwalin doesn’t want to know what it says exactly, so he decides to focus on the bunnies instead. They are rather large. He wonders how they might do in battle. Do all bunnies have such sharp teeth?).

“Well, then do have a safe trip,” Dain waves him off. “And do send the recipe for that wonderful mushroom stew!”

Mushroom stew. 

_ Mushroom  _ stew.

The pieces abruptly click together in Dwalin’s head. Not an overindulgence in ale is to blame for this, not a round of too-much-party, but Radagast’s special mushroom stew. 

What was it Tauriel had said? Hearing colors? (admittedly, those words had been spoken during a round of literal children’s coordination games being played to settle an international conflict, so perhaps they'd consumed the mushrooms already). 

“Cousin, are you alright?” Dain asks.

When Dwalin blinks, Radagast is frolicking off into the distance, Tilda waving after him while her armor clangs and clicks, and the outside world sits quietly, peacefully, and utterly normal. 

Until a bear drops down from the sky. 

Literally.

“Ahhhh!” shouts Dain.

“Ahhhh!” shouts Dwalin.

“Mister Beorn!” exclaims Tilda and runs over to hug said bear. Dwalin and Dain reach after her in vain, and Dwalin's heart steels itself for a grim ending (Beorn is not in control of his bear form, he remembers Gandalf telling them. He still can see that fearful beast bursting through the bushes in purchase of thirteen dwarves and one hobbit).

But Tilda throws her arms right around Beorn’s neck and Beorn snuggles the little girl clad in dwarven armor right back.  

“Good morning, Miss Tilda,” he greets, and Dwalin does a double take at hearing the rumbling voice emerge from a bear. “Did you have a good rest?”

“Quite so,” she cheerfully returns. “But I lost sight of my family. I do hope they didn't get into trouble. Da always gets into trouble.”

“Hum,” Beorn rumbles. “Then we will have to go and look for them.”

Thusly, their merry group of four leisurely strolls along the slopes of Erebor. How lucky, Dwalin thinks, that no one is around to see them - a little girl clad in armor, a dwarf in a tunic, a bear, and him. Bear, tunic-clad dwarf, and armored girl are now back to discussing variations of dismembering. Beorn gives important input on the differences between orcs and goblins. 

“Who's that down there,” Dwalin asks simply because hearing Tilda asking Beorn how Orc tastes is a bit much on this actually very sunny and nice summer morning. The lake glitters blue - and the white waves trailing behind two figures that seem to glide over the water are quite remarkable.

“That elvish prince and your young librarian,” Beorn says. “They were getting ready to test their invention when I started climbing the mountain earlier.”

“You climbed the mountain?” Tilda inquires, looking at Beorn in open admiration. Dwalin finds his eyes straying to Erebor’s lofty peak. It's quite … tall.

Beorn grunts. “Just felt like doing it, to be honest. In my normal form, I'm too afraid of heights, but since Gandalf got me stuck like this, I thought why not try it.”

“And did you get all the way to the top?” Tilda asks.

“Aye, I did.”

“How was it?”

“Cold. Windy. And there was one of those strange seeing stones on top, paladin or how you call them.”

“A palantir!” Dain exclaims. “So that's where it went!” 

When Tilda’s expression only betrays incomprehension, he explains: “They enable you to communicate with those in possession of the other stones. It's a complicated bit of magic, and many stones are lost today or have fallen into the hands of evil people.”

“Oh,” Tilda’s face falls.

“Did you destroy it?” Dwalin asks of Beorn.

He gets a very toothy grin in return. “Maybe,” the bear says. “I did use it to scratch a very particular itch, though.” 

Dain bursts out laughing. Tilda blinks, and Dwalin rolls his eyes. “Good idea, good idea, my friend, in fact -” Dain reaches for his tunic, calculation on his face, and Tilda brightens up. 

“Oh, do you mean you mooned him? Bain and Sigrid used to do it all the time when the Master had people watching our house,” she cheerfully supplies. “They always rowed away quite fast. It was fun to watch.” 

“Quite the strategy,” Dain nods in approvement (and Dwalin despairs thinking that this person did raise Thorin II, heir to the Iron Hills). “Did your da teach you?”

“No, he never caught on,” Tilda says and then turns back to the figures on the lake. They’re not gliding across the water by magic, Dwalin realizes at this point. They are on boards, holding onto ropes affixed to kites. Large kites. 

As Dwalin watches, one of the figures takes off for a moment and flies. The whoop echoes all the way up to Erebor. It's Ori’s voice.

“I'm so glad to see it’s working,” Tilda proclaims, and Beorn nods. “They were up so long making the calculations.”

“The prince wanted to use bats at first,” Beorn adds. “Glad he didn't. The wind seems easier to control. Also less likely to try to eat you.”

“Oh, bats can eat you? How do they do that? Do they go straight for the throat? Or attack the eyes first? Do they have venom?” Tilda’s curiosity has, once more, been piqued. 

Dwalin subtly directs them away from the lake. Ori and Legolas may or may not have been affected by the mushroom stew. What they're doing doesn't look particularly sane either way.

He hasn't quite counted on his efforts resulting in Dain taking the lead and steering them straight to Erebor’s crumbling stalls. It’s not that bad, although the dwarves of Dain’s host minding the war boars hosted there eye them with a bit of wary surprise.

Nobody approaches. Their King is singing happily and accompanied by a huge black bear. Dwalin understands that this is certainly not the time to loudly doubt royalty. 

“Hello there,” shouts another familiar voice that never held much on royalty. “Isn't this a wonderful morning?” 

Hoofs clack on the ground. One set sounds like the war boars Dwalin knows. The other, not so much.

“Bain,” Tilda exclaims cheerfully. For one very wild moment, Dwalin wonders if Gandalf turned Bain into some half-boar, the way he did to Nori. 

It's not quite so bad. Or maybe worse. Because Bain sits atop Thranduil’s elk, the animal’s flanks wet with sweat as it trots after Dain’s mighty war boar, which is ridden by Bofur. For some reason Dwalin doesn't care to discover, both riders are clad in elvish armor and are bearing harpoons. 

“Had a good race then,” Beorn inquires, because he is apparently immune to magic mushrooms. 

Both nod cheerfully. “We were thinking about going down and hunting some fish,” Bofur says. 

“Catch breakfast,” Bain cheerfully supplies, spinning his harpoon in a manner that would make Dwalin shouts down any soldier. 

“Oh, I wanna go with you!” Tilda exclaims. “I could show you how to dismember fish,” she says to Beorn and Dain. “I’m very good at it!”

Beorn and Dain nod enthusiastically, because dismembering fish apparently makes an amazing offer. (In face of everything that is currently happening around them, Dwalin thinks, it may just be). 

“Bring me my boar!” Dain orders the camp at large. “And another one for the young lady!”

“I get my own boar?” Tilda squeals with excitement.

Dain beams. “Of course. I'll show you some tricks on how to best dismember people from atop a boar. People always think it's the throat to go for, but in truth, once you're up there, the throat is not all that handy. And unless you manage to slice clean through, you risk wrenching your arm or losing your blade…”

Tuning out this cheerful conversation, Dwalin turns to Bain. He looks a bit small up on what must be an unusually large elk. 

“You alright, lad?” He asks. Did the mushrooms lead him to steal Thranduil’s elk? Why did the elvish guards let him? Why is the elk letting him?

“Quite,” Bain replies. “And don't worry, Thranduil said to take his elk. Did you know his name is Aras? It means elk - Elk the elk, I think that's awesome!” 

Dain explodes in boisterous laughter. At least, Dwalin tells himself, if Dain and Bain share their sense of humor, there is a good chance Dale and the Iron Hills will retain good relations for the ages to come. The less said about sane and sensible, the better.

“Amazing,” Dain concedes, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes. “Truly amazing! I never thought the old geezer had it in him!”

“What are your boars called?” Tilda asks. 

“Well, Bofur here is riding Sugarplum, the trampler,” Dain explains. “And the one my aide is bringing over there is Cherryblossom, the slicer.”

“How wonderful!” Tilda exclaims, while Dwalin wonders if his distant cousin always had such a peculiar sense of naming or if that was only brought on last night. He looks up to Bofur, only to find the sky there empty. (Which probably is some sort of metaphor for this day or his life, but Dwalin is rapidly entering the stage where he’d prefer seeing less metaphors).

“Oh,” says Bofur from the ground, “I think gravity is a bit stronger today.” 

Sugarplum snorts and takes an elegant step aside as if to distance himself from the dwarf. Bofur grins and pats her hide. “Yes, yes, I know. This one is a much cuter sack of potatoes.” He gestured at Tilda and Sugarplum seems to vehemently agree. Dwalin has to wonder if said boar used to be an actual person before some unlucky encounter with a wizard.

The fact that he can’t offhandedly dismiss the theory probably posits another sign of the universe telling him to go and run away screaming.  

“Well,” says Dain, after he managed to find his way into the saddle without exposing himself any further. “Let's go to the beach!” 

“You're not going to come?” Tilda asks Dwalin and Bofur. 

Dwalin shakes his head. “I have a King to find.” He’s not entirely certain what Bofus plans to do, since  he seems to have grown rather fond of his spot on the ground.

“Well, good luck with that,” Dain wishes, “I think I last saw Thorin confessing his undying love to the statue of Mahal in the second hallway.”

Maybe Dwalin should join Bofur on the ground. It looks comfortable and nice. And solid in ways the rest of the world refuses to be.

“Good luck!” Beorn wishes and then they are off.

“Mahal’s balls,” Dwalin curses, because his legs have not given him out and he has not turned away screaming. (Not yet). 

“Yes, Thorin was trying to fondle those while promising eternal love and so on,” Bofur chimes in from the ground, looking more aware than Dwalin thought. “Bilbo was watching and found it all highly amusing, I think he was also doing replies.”

“Anything else I should know?” Dwalin asks in the tone of somebody thinking it likely can't get worse. One King singing in a tunic, another seducing statues, two other rulers still missing. And then Beorn could have flashed anyone through the palantir, from the mysterious  Necromancer (who according to Gandalf’s rants might just be Sauron himself. That was quite some mushroom stew, Dwalin thinks, shaking his head) to a couple of random goldfishes on the ground of the eastern sea .

Radagast probably knew why he had to beat such a fast retreat.

“Only that Gandalf turned Tauriel into an eagle so that she, Sigrid and Kili could go east for a bit,” Bofur helpfully offers and Dwalin wishes the ground would open up. “See the world, get some experience, you know. They did remember to take some gold from Erebor, so I think they'll have some good fun.”

Or leave a trail of chaos and destruction. Dwalin has been traveling with Kili, he has seen Tauriel fight, and his very short acquaintance with Sigrid’s little sister taught him that Sigrid has mooned informants, while Tilda wants to kill orcs. 

Fun, fun times, indeed. 

“Do you know where Fili is?” Dwalin asks instead. Should they have lost both heirs, that makes for a particularly bad statistic. (And a slow and painful death once Dis finds out.) 

Bofur shrugs. “Last I saw him, he was wandering through the treasury.”

“Alright,” Dwalin declares and bends down to pull Bofur up. “You're coming with me.”

Their way back to Erebor is long, unsteady, but at least not filled with anymore terrifying revelations. Bofur seems content to hum some hobbit drinking song.Bilbo may have been singing too, Dwalin appears to blearily recall. Fairly early on, though. He'd borrowed Thranduil’s crown for his performance, for reasons unknown.

They come across said crown again. It lies half-buried under a pile of clothes; silks and worn leathers, Thranduil’ fine boots intermingled with a pair of very worn ones. The door to the guardhouse behind is shut. 

“Somebody had fun,” Bofur chirps, waggling his eyebrows. 

Dwalin can only be glad that Tilda decided to follow the lunatics down to the lake. He'd rather not be the one explaining to her why her da left all his clothes outside. (Because letting a bear explain her the best ways to kill orcs is obviously the moral thing to do. Dwalin cringes).

Something crashes behind the door. There is an aborted shout that turns into a drawn-out moan. 

“Is still having fun,” Bofur corrects his statement and doesn't protest when Dwalin urges them on. He already knows too much. Maybe some after effects of the mushrooms will kill these memories later? Preferably everything from the point where Gandalf suggested that terrible hobbit game onward?

They make their way to the Hall of Kings. And Dwalin is quite glad when they don't come across any other piles of clothing or other incriminating evidence. The charred spots in the corridors could have been caused by the dragon - much more plausible than indoor fireworks.

(Dwalin currently very much favors leaving Gandalf in the dungeon).

They do find Fili, in the Hall of Kings. He's wearing Thorin’s coat, Thorin’s crown and is dead to the world.

“Better let the lad rest,” Bofur gently advises. “He had rather much of the stew. I think he was seeing music or something at the end. Oh, and he was also wanting Bifur to look into magic portals.”

Dwalin feels himself rapidly losing faith in the line of Durin. They may have performed brilliantly under pressure. Thorin was an amazing leader in exile and astonishing throughout the quest. But put some mushrooms in their stew and suddenly everybody is dancing. Or creating portals. Or flying away on elves-turned-eagles. 

“Let's leave him, then,” Dwalin agrees and they slink back out. While Dwalin wonders as to what to do now, Bofur cheerfully suggests to check out the Royal quarters. 

“I think that's where Nori went with the handcuffs, later.” 

And a part of Dwalin abruptly realises he really doesn't want to know. Especially since he has not forgotten what Nori said. 

But he's always done his duty. Even if the universe really wants to see him run away screaming. 

They hear them the moment they enter the Royal wing.

“Hello,” Bilbo shouts, “anybody out there?”

“Hello!” Thorin echoes. 

“We could use some help!”

“Anybody there?”

Dwalin and Bofur exchange a glance. At least, Dwalin thinks, they aren't at it right now. 

“Coming!” Bofur announces before Dwalin wrestles the door open. 

Well, the fact that they aren't at it doesn't mean they aren't stark naked with traces of their former activities still quite visible. At least the strategically chosen positions mean Dwalin and Bofur don't get an eyeful. 

Thorin and Bilbo are also handcuffed to each other with the chain cleverly looped around the bed frames’ decorative golden decoration. 

So Nori did not lie, Dwalin thinks. Unfortunately. 

“Should we leave them too?” Bofur inquires conversationally. 

“Hey!” Thorin and Bilbo shout in one voice. 

“I mean, you’re obviously making the most of your situation,” Bofur continues and gestures to the crumpled bed sheets. “Really, why don’t you enjoy the moment a little longer?”

Dwalin is going to leave both Nori and Gandalf in the dungeon. Nobody even knows they’re there - it will be perfect. 

“I had plans and Thorin needs to rule a kingdom,” Bilbo replies flatly. “It’s a bit difficult to do that, naked and chained to a bed.”

Bofur tilts his head. “Yes? Have you tried?”

Thorin’s body language is somewhere between “Mahal strike me down  _ now _ ” and “I want to murder everyone in this room”. It’s not the best look on him, and probably the reason why Dwalin hasn’t made short work of the chain yet. 

“I’d rather not, Bofur,” Bilbo chides. “Could you just hand us the key? Nori put it on the table over there.”

From the crease between Bilbo’s eyebrows, Dwalin assumes there is at least one other person in this mountain willing to extend Nori’s dungeon stay. Especially when, after unlocking the handcuffs, they discover that Nori also spirited away their clothes.

It’s not that difficult to find a spare set of old tunics for Thorin, but they are a bit large on Bilbo. The collar keeps slipping over his shoulder and he has to tug it back up again. A detail that, by the flush covering his cheeks, has not escaped Thorin.

One would think that after spending one night naked and chained to each other on a bed, such impulses would have been sated, Dwalin notes. Then again, one of the persons in question is Thorin. He could have been reciting dwarven rock poetry for all Dwalin knows.  

“Where is everyone, anyway?” Bilbo asks as he slips on an oversized coat. “We’ve been calling out for what felt like hours.”

“Fili’s asleep on the throne,” Dwalin deadpans. “Kili absconded with Sigrid and Tauriel.”

“Whom Gandalf turned into an eagle,” Bofur adds.

“Ori invented some flying machine in cooperation with Legolas.”

“They’re testing it out on the Lake right now, it does look fun.”

“Dain is teaching Tilda how to kill orcs.”

“Bombur is asleep in the hall, naked.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that!” Bofur exclaims. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bilbo and Thorin look at them with very, very wide eyes. 

“Oh dear,” says Bilbo, before starting to walk and promptly tripping on the too long hem of his coat.

Thorin catches him, and frowns. “Do I want to know about the rest?”

Bofur shrugs. “I haven’t seen anybody else. Oh, well, Beorn. He’s unaffected, except that he’s in his bear form. But he’s really friendly. Also scaled the mountain, all the way to the top.”

“What about Oin? Balin?” Thorin asks, uneasily shifting his weight. 

“My brother is having a good time,” Dwalin replies and sees Thorin cringe. “Oin… I’m afraid I don’t quite know. Somebody said he got turned into a field shrew?” 

Thorin sits down rather heavily on a nearby stool. Dwalin decides that  they needn’t know about Gandalf, Nori, Thranduil, and Bard yet. However, this means the company still isn’t entirely accounted for. 

“So nobody knows what happened to Bifur?” Bofur asks promptly. 

Nobody does, and as such the search for Bifur ensues. He’s not hiding in the closet (why Bofur thought to look there, Dwalin simply doesn’t want to know), in the armory, or in the kitchens. 

Eventually Bofur’s vague memory of Fili wanting to research magic portals leads them to a hidden underground chamber full of old, crumbling magical tomes. From Thorin’s expression, Dwalin presumes he isn’t the only one who never even knew this room existed. (And perhaps until last night it had not existed either).

However, Bifur is there and happy to see them. 

“Is it morning already?” he asks, looking up from a large tome written in a form of Khuzdul Dwalin barely even recognizes. One of the eastern dialects? Proto-Khuzdul?

“Apparently so,” Bilbo replies somewhat grumbly (he has tripped no less than ten times over the coat now. If he holds it up, it will begin slipping from his shoulders.), while Bofur is inspecting what looks like a narrow chalk circle etched into the ground. It does look harmless except for the fact that Dwalin’s instincts are screaming. The air looks strange there as well - which of course means Bofur is stretching out his fingers towards it. 

“Be careful, that’s a portal!” Bifur admonishes his cousin who pulls back.

“A portal?” Thorin echoes, bewildered. Next to him, Bilbo gapes. Dwalin is no more familiar with the notion of portals than either of them - but he has by now grown used to this particular morning. 

Bofur probably was born ready.

“Where does it lead?” Bofur asks instead of wondering what the existence of portals implies for their future and world. 

Bifur grimaces. “I’m not entirely certain. When I sent Ori and Legolas through they said it dumped them in Gondor’s main library. Came back with a bunch of books, too. However, I think it shifted since, and I’m afraid Master Alfrid has not yet returned.”

Good riddance, Dwalin thinks. 

“Do you know what it might have shifted to?” Bilbo inquires. 

Bifur shifts his weight. “Mordor.”

Well. Oops. 

“I think we may better close it then?” Bilbo suggests. “Who knows what might come through.” 

“What about Master Alfrid?” Bifur inquires.

Bilbo tilts his head. “Judging by his taste in fashion I assume he will feel right at home there.”

Dwalin doesn’t know much about the fashions of Mordor. He didn’t know that Bilbo knew about these either. But in his opinion this Alfrid fellow looked like somebody in need of more time outdoors, so if he end up having to walk back from Mordor, it will likely do wonders for his complexion and fitness. 

“Well,” Bofur says when Bifur with a few, precise movements closes the portal. “Let’s hope Gondor’s librarians never figure out where their books disappeared to! Now, I’m hungry - shall we grab some food and head to the lake? It’s a nice day out there.”

Everybody happily agrees. 

Leisurely strolling toward the glittering blue waters, Dwalin thinks to himself, does at least not constitute running screaming.

They make their way down, still quite a mixed group. But, Dwalin thinks while Fili splashes into the waves where Bain, Dain and Tilda are already hard at play. With a whoop Bofur tears off his shirt and plunges into the Lake as well. Beorn snoozes in the shadows, Bilbo and Thorin settle down in the shade of another tree, and maybe, maybe this isn't too terrible.

Dwalin has found himself a nice rock to sit upon and gaze over the water. Yes, he thinks, a little insane, but nobody got hurt in the end. That must count for something.

“Oin!” Bofur exclaims in cheerful surprise and Dwalin lazily glances over to see Oin sitting in a pile of leaves. Naked, of course, and still chewing on a piece of bark, but at least no longer a field shrew.

“That means the wizard’s spell must have worn off,” Legolas determines and Ori nods along. 

Finally, Dwalin thinks, but simultaneously sees Ori’s face crease from the corner of his eyes. Why would Ori be unhappy with things returning to normal?  

A deep, deep, angry growl echoes from the shady corner.

Of course. If the spell on Oin wore off, so did the enchantment on Beorn that rendered him in control of his bear form. The one that kept him gently snoring in the tree shade, content to watch everybody splash in the water. 

That time is over. Somebody screams. Those in the water decide to go and dive, while a discontent oversized bear climbs to its feet, baring sharp teeth at them. Well, Dwalin thinks sardonically, a part of him felt like running away screaming for a while now. 

At least this way he isn’t the only one to do it.

_ Exit, pursued by a bear. _


	53. Power in the Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Bilbo touches the Arkenstone, he knows. They may have called it a myth, a rumor, back home, and at first it has no bearing at all. But when the battle comes Bilbo figures out that there may be a use to it after all. 
> 
> Except that is has a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, beware MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH and ANGST. Look back at the summary and take a good guess... and if you feel like it, continue. XD
> 
> Also, this was inspired by an amazing [artwork](https://shipsicle.tumblr.com/post/159523851336/zann-galikh-bilbo-sorry-zann#notes) by the wonderful [shipsicle](http://shipsicle.tumblr.com).

“What?” Thorin’s voice flutters breathlessly, too quiet, too high, and yet too loud in the cold night. Overhead the stars are veiled. A busy murmur pulses through the torch-lit camp around them and in his chest his heart has stopped.

Gandalf, his face grieved and aged and burdened beyond words, turns his eyes downward and quietly shakes his head.

The world fades. Background noise fades into silence, the icy wind’s caress vanishes, and yet Thorin shivers as his world narrows into a darkening tunnel and time grinds to a stop.

Because of what Gandalf said. It cannot be true.

“No,” he protests. His voice rises. “No. Gandalf!”

The wizard gazed at him sadly and then turns toward the tent behind him. A warm light emanates from within; but Thorin has grown numb as he follows Gandalf inside.

It's quiet inside. Thick carpets keep the din outside, a fire crackles merrily in an oven in the corner, several oil lamps provide light. Thorin does not feel the warmth, does not notice the silence - his eyes are drawn to the still figure lying on a cot in the middle of the tent. Various bottles and medical instruments yet stand next to where a pale hand rests on faded blankets - the healers have already moved on.

Thorin’s breath hitches.  

Under timeworn, once-luxurious covers Bilbo lies peacefully, his face relaxed as if asleep. However, his chest neither rises nor falls, and the bandages wrapped around his head are white despite the dried blood that taints strands of curly hair a darker hue.

And as Thorin’s heart breaks, Gandalf speaks.

“I'm so sorry, Thorin,” he says. “I wish I knew what happened.”

Pain bubbles up in Thorin’s chest. “He was safe,” he protests, as his fingers clench. “He was safe when I left him.”

Left him with you, Thorin does not say.

Gandalf’s expression twists with unspeakable sorrow. Thorin doesn't see it; his glassy eyes fixed on Bilbo, and he reverently steps closer to the cot.

“I know. I thought the same.” Gandalf bows his head. He knows what Thorin sees; he was here before and laid his own hands on Bilbo’s chest, disbelief cursing through his veins as he sought to understand.

“Why did you leave him?” Thorin's voice trembles. He recalls carrying Bilbo to the camp, recalls the warmth of Bilbo’s hands when they last touched him. _Why did you leave him_ , he silently shouts at himself.

“I thought he was safe.”

A pained noise that isn't quite human escapes Thorin’s throat. He reaches out, hesitates - then crumbles to his knees next to the cot, one hand clenching the fabric next to Bilbo’s hand. It has grown pallid already, and probably cold.

But Thorin can’t yet make himself confirm it; cannot yet cross that slight gap and take Bilbo’s hand. Not when he still remembers those fingers weakly holding onto his own. His eyes burn and he squeezes them shut.

“We will find out what happened,” Gandalf vows, and there is something dark in his voice, something that echoes through time and space, and yet fails to touch Thorin. “We will.”

Thorin exhales quietly. Then he opens his eyes and turns his gaze to Bilbo’s face. Somebody kindly wiped away the blood and grime, but he is too pale, his cheekbones too sharp. When Thorin thinks of Bilbo he remembers sun-kissed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and a wide smile.

Now nothing of that remains.

“He should never have come,” Thorin whispers, though whether he blames Gandalf or himself he does not know.

“Perhaps,” Gandalf allows with a small sigh. “But I doubt he would agree.”

No, Thorin thinks, of course not. In spite of everything Bilbo had shown remarkable tenacity and a stubbornness that put many dwarves to shame. He’d also taken great joy in being contrary - if only to rile Thorin up.

Behind him a rustle of cloth betrays Gandalf moving. The wizard steps to the other side of the cot and reaches for a bundle sitting among the abandoned medical instruments. Thorin has paid it no attention, but now he realizes it does look surprisingly familiar.

Gandalf picks it up and begins to unwrap it. A strange heaviness accompanies his words, but When Thorin catches sight of a familiar glow his heart sinks.

“We were rather surprised to discover Bilbo had the Arkenstone on him.”

***

The first time Bilbo touches the Arkenstone he knows.

He had suspected it, of course. Hearing the dwarves’ name for it the connection had not been difficult to make. Still, among hobbits - they’d always spoken of it as a myth, a rumor.

Something curious, but irrelevant.

Bilbo purses his lips as he turns the stone over in his hands. Perhaps these old myths are not quite as irrelevant as he always thought.

“Would it help, do you think? Would it help Thorin if the stone was found?” he dares to ask Balin at one point and holds his breath in the suffocating stillness of Erebor these days.

But Balin shakes his head and speaks of madness. Below them, in the treasury, Thorin sinks deeper into the clutches of a different curse. One where the strange tingling Bilbo feels in his fingers whenever he touches the Arkenstone is of no consequence.

***

“The Arkenstone?” Thorin asks, taken aback. A part of him wants so shout at the wizard to discard the stone; wants nothing to do with the cursed gem. But underneath that fury lurk questions, and Thorin cannot help but recall.

His own fingers digging into the soft, warm skin of Bilbo’s shoulder. The scared but determined glint in the hobbit’s eye. And the shared smiles when they’d met on the battlefield and put all of that behind.

Now the warmth, the spark, and the smile are gone. Forever.

Thorin's gaze drifts back to Bilbo’s still body; the thought echoing in his mind like a thunderclap. Forever. He won't ever see Bilbo smile again.

Meanwhile Gandalf uncovers the stone and its glow brightens the interior of the tent. Thorin wearily glances over. He’d thought the gem’s part in the story over.

But apparently he’d been wrong.

“Indeed,” the wizard remarks while a contemplative frown pulls on his forehead. “I do not know when he took it; nor do I know why.”

***

When Bilbo recalls the rumors next, his throat aches from phantom fingers, and bruises form where his back pressed against uneven stone. But most of all, his heart aches - with loss, and grief and fear, and he sticks close to Gandalf as the wizard directs them back to Dale. Orc horns echo over the valley; elves and dwarves and men scramble into formation.

But black smoke already rises on the horizon and ever new tunnels open with thunderous clamor to the north. Fresh legions of orcs and goblins tumble into the fray; hungry for flesh and blood.  Even the sky seems overcome with despair, and in his heart Bilbo hopes Erebor’s closed gate will protect his dwarves.

They might outlast the battle. Even if he, Bard, and so many others won't.

The orcs number far too many.

“Go, Master Baggins! To the hall!” Gandalf orders, pushing Bilbo up a cobblestoned street. Around them men and women rush back and forth; some planning to barricade themselves in the city hall; others picking up what weapons they find to fight. Bilbo stumbles, because he has Sting tied to his belt and a mithril vest under his coat.

“But - “

“You will be safe there,” Gandalf says shortly. “This …” his mouth twitches and he swallows whatever he intended to say. “Go!”

And then he whirls on his heel and rushes back toward the city walls, from where a frightening cacophony of screams, blades, and crumbling stone echoes. Even before he's out of sight Gandalf draws his blade - and Bilbo's own shoulder slump.

It’s unlikely he’ll see the next sunrise.

“Go inside boy!” somebody shouts his way, rushing past with a rusty pike in hand.

Bilbo’s head swims. He should go inside, hide. He’s no fighter; he should hand Sting to somebody who knows how to use it. Maybe it will help.

Maybe it will save just one life.

Behind him the mountains shudder as another earthworm bursts through. Bilbo can see the flying rocks in the distance, and his stomach sinks. So many, he thinks, what chance do we have? Even if he hides, what good will it do?

“Heaven help us,” somebody mutters, and Bilbo’s heart echoes the sentiment. His fingers tremble, and he finally turns toward the entrance to the hall with his feet feeling like lead. Overhead the sky grows darker, and the mountains rumble dangerously.

It’s as if the earth itself -

Oh, Bilbo thinks.

His feet stop on their own. Men and women keep running. Shouting. Screaming.

Dying.

Bilbo can still hear his grandmother’s voice as she narrated that tale. Now, between the screams and the rumbling, he can hear it once again. Words, almost forgotten, drift past him like a light breeze that breaks the oppressive gloom lingering over the crumbling city.

_There is power in the earth._

Abruptly he swivels to the right. Thranduil’s tent was next to the hall; he remembers. Bilbo pushes through the crowd, ignores the shouts of protest, turns the corner - and breathes a sigh of relief when the tent still sits there. One lone elf remains on guard, but this time Bilbo doesn’t hesitate to slip on his ring.

The world shifts into blurred grey; the noises dim into a distant roar of screams and ringing weapons. Only the lone elven sentry glows bright, and that makes it easy for Bilbo to avoid him despite his heart thundering in his chest. He slips into the tent, a cold gust of wind following him.

The interior looks unchanged from the night before. Bilbo’s gaze wanders and for a moment panic rises in his mind: what if the Arkenstone is not here? What if it was taken away already? But then he spies the elegant wooden box sitting in the corner, and he knows the stone is within.

He sighs in relief.

Now that he looks for it, he can sense the stone humming with power. Its promise sings to Bilbo’s ears; joined by its unearthly glow as Bilbo opens the box and draws out the stone. His fingers tingle, yet the sweat drying on his back feels cold.

Outside, the mountains rumble.

Is it possible, Bilbo wonders.

The Arkenstone pulses in his hand.

_Power in the earth. And a long time ago our ancestors knew how to wield it._

A gust of cold wind blows open the tent flap. Torches and fires light the plain; ruins have turned to black shadow as the sky has started to fade to starless black. But still Erebor’s towering silhouette remains visible and beckons to Bilbo.

Another orc horn blows. The wind carries faint screams and the smell of charred flesh.

Bilbo looks to Erebor. The wind is stronger now, he thinks. It’s picking up. Changing.

A shudder that is not only due to the cold runs down his spine. He knows what he must do.

***

“At first I thought he may have taken it to return it to you,” Gandalf says quietly.

Thorin straightens where he kneels. “He didn't …” He never even mentioned it.

“Yes,” Gandalf replies, interrupting the weak protest. “He didn't give it to you.” The wizard falls silent, but Thorin can guess at the question himself.

Why, then, did Bilbo have the Arkenstone in his possession?

***

Bilbo reaches Ravenhill with his lungs afire and his legs trembling. He does not know how many blades he dodged on sheer luck alone, and how many dead and dying he passed. But blood now clings to his skin and clothes, and does trickle from a shallow cut over his ear where he did not duck fast enough.

An icy gust of wind cools the sweat on his forehead and Bilbo feels the earth stir underneath his feet. The Arkenstone throbs in his hand.

He draws a shuddering breath. Walks forward until the place feels right. Snow-dusted ruins surround him; black silhouettes in the night, while fires flicker like tiny lights on the battlefield below. Perhaps it would be better to do this in the mountain itself; at the place where the stone was once found.

But Erebor’s gate remains shut - and Bilbo is grateful, because like this he knows his dwarves are safe and hale and not dying down like so many others - and the stone in his hand glows brightly. Brighter than before.

Ravenhill is good enough.

_There is power in the earth. Power older than magic. Men and elves, they long have forgotten. Dwarves once knew it through their gems and jewels, but in the end that blinded them._

Bilbo takes a deep breath, flexes his fingers. Sets the stone before him, sits back.

_And even our kind barely recalls what it is. We can feel what ground is fertile, and what ground has spoiled, but we, too, have lost the skills to wield its power._

_How,_ Bilbo had asked of his grandmother, young and naive, _can you wield it?_

Bilbo’s fingers tingle, even though his fingers aren’t touching the stone. And there is something in the air. Churning, shifting - Bilbo can sense it. He may not be a wizard, may just be one little hobbit, but he can sense the earth stir.

_It’s the earth. You cannot yield it. Nobody can._

Bilbo purses his lips. Concentrates.

_Because of the price._

Bilbo puts his hands down on the Arkenstone.

***

“Its glow appears diminished,” Gandalf murmurs, drawing Thorin from his grief. He has not risen from his knees; does not know if he will ever have the strength too. His hands have found Bilbo’s; gently enfolding it between his own.

Now he casts a bleary glance toward the wizard who hovers, his staff drawn, over the Arkenstone.

“I … wouldn’t know,” Thorin replies wearily. Perhaps the stone’s light has lessened, but to him the stone has ceased to matter.

“No, it has,” Gandalf mutters mostly to himself. “I wonder…”

***

Victory was impossible when night fell. But at some point the wind changes. A supply tunnel collapses. An earthworm turns against the orcs.

Within Erebor Thorin Oakenshield awakens from the curse. A more primal, older power surges through him, casts off the gold’s thrall. And he recognizes Erebor for what she is and knows his duty.

Then Erebor’s horn echoes over the plains and ruins, and fortunes change. The dwarves of Erebor throw themselves into the battle, easily cutting into rows of confused orcs. Revived, Dain and his dwarves follow. The elves regroup, only to round up stragglers and before long the flow of the battle has irrevocably shifted.

Bolg’s army never makes it. An avalanche kills half of them and destroys their passage through the mountains. The altered winds trouble the bats. And then the eagles descend; their powerful wings built for whirling and stirring air, and long before morning dawns men and dwarves and elves know that they will win this battle.

Up on Ravenhill, Bilbo lets go of the Arkenstone with an exhausted sigh. His eyelids flutter and he can feel the cold creeping into his veins.

_There is a price._

One he pays, gladly, he thinks as he closes his eyes.

***

Footsteps interrupt Thorin’s dark thoughts again. Instead of passing somebody pulls aside the tent flap - a curse lies on Thorin’s lips already; he wants no interruption. But when he looks up and catches sight of Bofur’s face those words turn to ash.

The miner looks worn; his clothes splattered with blood and his face has only hastily been wiped clean. He should be resting somewhere, Thorin thinks, but then he knows where Bofur is looking, and can see realization set in.

“Master Bofur,” Gandalf begins, politely clearing his throat, and Thorin wonders if the wizard is about to usher him out. However, of the three of them, Bofur probably was the best friend to Bilbo. If any of them has a right to be here, it is him.

“So it’s true then,” Bofur murmurs softly, and Thorin swallows hard. “I had hoped the rumor wasn’t true.” The expression with which he looks at Bilbo is both sad and gentle, but he makes no move to approach.

Thorin feels like he should move. Bofur is Bilbo’s friend, not the mad king that tried to kill him. He ought to have this place, he ought to -

“Oh, the stone is here?” Bofur instead turns toward Gandalf with mild interest. “Did Bilbo have it?”

Gandalf’s brow furrows; Thorin wishes he could just destroy the stone once and for all. It only brought them grief and to Bilbo, ultimately, death. It’s -

“Its light has dimmed, too, I think,” Bofur remarks, crouching low to look at the stone closely. “It’s still dimming, isn’t it, Gandalf?”

His tone remains mildly curious. But there’s something in his voice that makes Thorin turn to watch over his shoulder and Gandalf purse his lips.

“I believe so, yes,” the wizard confirms, strangely hesitant. “But your stone sense is far better than mine, so you probably know.”

Suspicion colors Gandalf’s voice. He’s right, Thorin knows Bofur’s stone sense is unparalleled in their generation, but he can’t follow the implications. Not when Bilbo’s hand is still growing colder with each passing moment.

“You didn’t feel it, then?” Bofur inquires.

Now both Thorin and Gandalf stiffen. “Feel what?” the wizard demands, tone bristling with power.

Bofur gazes back to Bilbo and his lips twist into a small, sad smile. “I think I know what happened.”

***

Amid the ruins and frozen landscapes of Ravenhill, Thorin Oakenshield slays Azog the Defiler. Breathing hard, he stares at the head of his enemy, his mind still awash in disbelief while his body continues to hum with battle-fever. But the icy air cools him down, and the black blood seeping into the ice tells him that Azog is truly dead.

After so long, the orc has finally been slain, and Thorin scarcely can believe it.

Eventually he turns away and relief smooths some of the creases in his brow. Overhead the sky has begun to lighten, and the sounds of battle are dying down below. He can see where the elves have gathered to sweep the mountains for stragglers, and where the men of Dale proceed through the town to chase any remaining orc out of its hiding place.

He needs to go down there and help.

Killing Azog exhausted him, but for a few cuts and bruises he is unhurt. He knows he owes the men down there an apology, even if the words have to wait. Letting them see him defend their homes will help mend the rift.

But more than anything he wishes to apologize to Bilbo, even though words cannot take back his actions. Cannot undo the hurt he caused.

Thorin sighs quietly to himself and sheathes Orcrist. As long as Bilbo is safe, he will be satisfied. What he can do for the hobbit’s happiness he will do.

But whether or not Bilbo will even want to look at him or be his friend after what happened…

Thorin morosely shakes his head and turns away. He brought this one upon himself; he needs to step up to his responsibilities. The sun crests the horizon and the air begins to feel warmer.

Lost in thought, he almost misses the spot of blue among the grey and white of ice-covered rocks. Patches of a familiar coat.

His heart sinks. It can't be -

Thorin leaves the staircase and crosses the distance. Nestled between the crumbling ruins of Ravenhill’s watchtower lies a small body.

No, Thorin breathes to himself. No.

His feet pick up speed, his mind starts whirling. Not Bilbo, he shouldn't be here. He was with Gandalf - the wizard ought to have kept him safe. He shouldn't be here -

The figure lies face-down, slumped over. But the matted curls that flutter in the wind leave no doubt to his identity.

With his heart in his throat Thorin drops to his knees. His fingers tremble when he reaches out, and he doesn't dare to breathe -

The skin under his fingers feels clammy, but he can feel a pulse. It's weaker than he likes, but Bilbo steady. Relief slams into Thorin so hard he bends over.

He's alive.

And, as far as Thorin can see, not hurt. He swallows he dread that still renders his knees weak and reaches out to turn Bilbo over.

The hobbit flops limply first, and Thorin again breathes out when he finds no injuries on Bilbo’s front either. Then a frown crosses Bilbo’s face and before Thorin can decide on what to do the hobbit’s eyes open.

Thorin freezes. Bilbo …

He has every right to not want to see Thorin’s face ever again.

But Bilbo mainly looks confused. “Thorin?” he asks, voice hoarse and slurred.

“Yes,” Thorin confirms and when Bilbo’s hand seems to reach for him he catches it gently.

He has no right.

Once Bilbo’s mind clears…

The hobbit blinks. “The battle?” he wonders. “What happened?”

“We won,” Thorin says and look toward the brightening sky. Below they will nearly be done finishing off the stragglers. “The eagles came.”

Bilbo smiles. “I'm glad…” he murmurs. “Azog?”

“Dead,” Thorin confirms. “I slew him not far from here.”

“Good,” Bilbo returns with conviction. He makes an effort to sit up, but visibly lacks the strength. There is a pallor to his face Thorin doesn’t like.

“Stay still,” Thorin cautions while he props Bilbo against himself. Worry rises in his chest again. “Are you hurt?”

Bilbo frowns. “I don't think so,” he replies a heartbeat too slow, and an icy fear rises in Thorin’s chest. Even though, aside from superficial cuts he cannot see any injury on Bilbo.

“How did you come to be here anyway?” Thorin wonders aloud to brush aside the rising panic. “I thought you were with Gandalf. Did you get split up during the fight?”

Bilbo grimaces, his eyes not quite meeting Thorin’s face..

“Something like that,” Bilbo murmurs, then blinks when Thorin begins to shuffle. “What are you doing?”

“We should get down,” Thorin says quietly. Concern throbs in his chest. He doesn’t like how the sluggishness clings to Bilbo, how he visibly struggles to even focus on Thorin. “I'm certain you are being missed in the camp. Also I find the ground somewhat cold to sit on.”

The shadow hovering over Bilbo’s face lifts for a moment, and his lips quirk. “... now that you say it.”

“See,” Thorin replies and carefully navigates one arm underneath Bilbo’s knees. “And I believe I know a number of dwarves who are rather concerned for you as well.”

Bilbo makes a noise of protest when Thorin stands. “Put me down, I can walk,” he insists and tugs at the sleeves of Thorin’s coat. “Thorin, you're hurt!”

“Nothing more than a scratch,” Thorin insists. “But you're not looking good.”

Now that the sun has risen Thorin can see the terrible pallor of Bilbo’s face clearly. He looks deeply exhausted, and even if Thorin can't see the cause, the idea that Bilbo has lain unconscious for so long makes his insides clench.

Bilbo doesn't reply and that worries Thorin even more. He turns back to the crumbling stairs leading down. Hopefully he'll find the wizard quickly - Gandalf will know how to help.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says thoughtfully after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Thorin’s heart shudders. He hopes the stutter in his step isn't too conspicuous.

“Bilbo…”

“I am, really. I know what I did wasn't right, and if there had been any other way -”

“It's alright, Bilbo,” Thorin hushes. He can't stand the heartbreak in Bilbo’s voice; not when the guilt lies heavily on his own shoulders too.

“No, Thorin, it's not,” Bilbo protests and Thorin is glad to see a spark in his eye again. “You trusted me. I betrayed that trust.”

“I didn't leave you a choice,” Thorin returns. “And honestly, I ought to thank you for taking that cursed stone away.”

Bilbo chuckles weakly. Thorin tightens his grip and hurries his steps. He dares not to run, because ice and debris on the crumbling stairs challenge his footing.

Thorin swallows. “I also must make an apology of my own. Nothing I can do or say will make up for what I did, but if I could I would take back my words and deeds.” Thorin clears his throat against the invisible obstacle closing it. “Bilbo, I’m sorry. You went above and beyond the requirements of that contract, and I will forever be indepted to you. All of Erebor will.”

Bilbo smiles. Exhausted, but warm. “Well, then I’m glad,” he announces with a small sigh that Thorin can feel going through the body in his arms. “But you needn’t be so grateful; I merely did what I could.”

Thorin allows his own shoulders to relax a little. He doesn’t like how boneless Bilbo feels in his arms - it’s unlike him. But the battle has worn them all down, and Thorin is glad when his ears pick up noises from the camp below.

Elves, dwarves, and men have pitched tents and now work together, running between the tents, carrying water, medicine and food. Smoke rises on the distant field; orc corpses piled high and set aflame. Beyond all, the Long Lake glitters under a cold sun.

“It’s beautiful,” Bilbo murmurs.

Thorin inclines his head in agreement. “It is.”

A cold gust of wind brushes Thorin’s hair from his face. In his arms, Bilbo shudders and Thorin picks up his pace again. Even with the sun shining down on the ground the air remains cold; and the body in his arms does not feel warm enough either.

“How is everyone?” Bilbo asks quietly as the sounds around them grow louder. “Did they all…”

“When I last saw them all were alive and well,” Thorin responds and suppresses his own grimace. He left the others behind hours ago - and while the battle was won, he knows it came at a price. “I’m sure they are fine. I know quite a few wanted to find you.”

Bilbo smiles slightly at that. His gaze, Thorin realizes, has been drawn toward Erebor. Her snow-covered slopes glow under the morning sun, appearing almost magical.

“They want to make their own apologies,” Thorin adds and his heart grows heavier again.

“That’s not necessary,” Bilbo returns with a snort. “I’m just glad it all turned out alright.”

Thorin’s brow creases. “Still…” he protests, trying to find the right words. Nobody had foreseen the battle. Though he wonders whether he would have given the order to join if not for Bilbo’s mad barter.

“I do wish I had never put you in a position where you had to make that decision.” Thorin tightens his grip a little as another shiver runs through Bilbo.

Bilbo closes his eyes for a moment. “I never wanted to hurt you either,” he says. “But if all is well in the end, I suppose I can’t regret my own actions too much.” He blinks and directs a more mirthful smile at Thorin.

“You should do the same, Thorin.”

Honestly, he is not too sure he can. But Thorin will agree that everything - miraculously - turned out alright in the end. And while a part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop - fate has never been kind to his kin, to him - maybe it will allow him this happiness.

“Your majesty!”

“Thorin!”

And then they have reached the camp. Several men and dwarves recognize Thorin, while the elven healers take note of the limp figure in his arms.

“Get a healer! And then find Oin! And then the wizard!” Thorin barks at the nearest dwarf, who nods and takes off. Somebody directs him toward a tent - and then he’s turned around and told to go to another, because the King ought to have a better tent. If not for the hobbit in his arms Thorin would have protested - he needs no tent when his own mountain towers above them.

But Bilbo has grown strangely silent; his face hidden by his hair.

Eventually though, Thorin ducks into the right tent and leaves his growing tross of dignitaries and soldiers behind. The air within has thankfully been warmed - a small stove at the side sees to it. And the tent tarp has been strengthened by carpets and blankets. Even the wide cot set to the back looks more than decent - the blankets may be faded, but they still feel soft and warm.

Thorin gently sets Bilbo onto the cot. The hobbit blinks sluggishly, his eyes not really focusing. One hand lifts slightly, searching - and Thorin takes it, enfolds it within his own.

“Thorin?” Bilbo murmurs. His hand feels far too cold.

“It’s alright,” Thorin replies softly in that tone he used to soothe his nephews when nightmares kept them awake so many years ago. “I have to go and look after things. You rest for a bit, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Bilbo relaxes at that, and Thorin smiles gently. Hopefully some rest will help Bilbo recover - he should not have been in the battle, not have lain alone in the cold for so long. So many things that shouldn’t have happened to him, and yet they did.

Thorin brushes his free hand over Bilbo’s curls. “You’ll be safe here,” he says. “Sleep well.”

***

Bofur’s words echo like thunder. Thorin’s blood has frozen, while Gandalf’s fingers are clenched around his staff. Bofur seems unmoved by either. Instead he leaves the Arkenstone behind and crosses the space to settle down on Bilbo’s other side.

Grief shines bright in his eyes.

“What happened,” Gandalf demands, nearly furious. “Master Bofur, what are you talking about?”

Thorin, too, looks to the other dwarf.

Bofur sighs. “During the battle I felt a … sort of current run through the ground,” he says quietly and reaches over with one bandaged hand to smooth a few stray curls from Bilbo’s face. “Twice.”

Thorin felt nothing. Nothing at all.

That Gandalf apparently hasn’t noticed either offers no consolation.

“The first time it was just before we left Erebor,” Bofur says, and the pit in Thorin’s chest deepens. Just before …

Did it coincide with his madness abating? Thorin had wondered at how suddenly his mind cleared, but brushed it aside in face of more urgent issues.

“Apparently the tide of the battle had already begun to shift then,” Bofur carries on. “There were some avalanches; some collapses.”

“Those did help a lot,” Gandalf adds, his forehead wrinkled. “I thought it was sheer luck, then.”

Bofur smiles grimly. “It needs a little more than luck to collapse a stable tunnel.”

Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine. A picture begins to form in his mind - but it is impossible. Utterly, totally impossible.

“Then what…” Gandalf mutters, his eyes widening as well.

“The second pulse I felt just around dawn,” Bofur continues, undaunted. “It didn’t make sense at first. But now … that was probably about the time when you found Bilbo, Thorin.”

Gandalf swivels to Thorin.

The King under the Mountain has no idea what they are implying.

“How was he when you found him?” Bofur asks, and Thorin understands that there is a hidden significance to his words, but he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t know how to answer.

“He was unconscious,” he manages, his lips feeling unwieldy and stiff. “Cold from lying on the stone so long. Weak, too, but I couldn’t see any injury.” A terrible suspicion rises in the back of his mind: what if he killed Bilbo by moving him? What if he ought to have called help to him instead?

“I don’t think there was one,” Bofur replies, his tone gentler now. “But at that time Bilbo already ought to have been dead.”

***

Thus Erebor’s new era dawns with a funeral. It is perhaps fitting, Thorin thinks as he draws the black cloak over his shoulders and casts a look at his reflection, for many died to reclaim the mountain.

But Bilbo should not have.

He grimaces at himself. The grief is written across his features, obvious in the shadows under his eyes and the curve of his shoulders.

Bilbo should have never been in that battle. And while Thorin’s heart is selfish enough to be glad Bilbo followed them (and he knows they would have never made it without him), his heart wishes beyond everything that Bilbo was alive.

But there is no magic that can achieve this and under Thorin’s hand the Arkenstone remained cold, no matter what he tried. He’d have shed his own blood if Dwalin hadn’t stopped him.

With a sigh Thorin straightens. He leaves his chambers and heads toward the tombs under the mountain. Today, the air in Erebor has shifted. Grief shows, not only in the subdued murmurs and sad melodies echoing through its halls, but also in the dimmed lights now tinting the halls a dimmer, yet warmer hue.

Below, the grand funeral chamber has already grown crowded. Dain, Bard, Gandalf, even Thranduil - they all have come, and in their faces Thorin can see the same question that plagues him: if they are not all at fault. If they should not have let Bilbo stay in his comfortable, warm home so far, far away.

He’d be happy there now. Maybe raking in the last leaves in his garden.

Instead he lies here, dressed in foreign riches, but cold and unmoving. Even the Arkenstone’s glow from where it sits on his chest cannot hide the deathly pallor of his skin.

A fresh lance of pain pierces his heart as Thorin turns to take his seat. No, he thinks, they should never have plucked Bilbo away from his armchairs and his garden. They would not have reached Erebor; Mirkwood would have fallen, and before long the Iron Hills, too, would have been overrun by the enemy. But even so -

Bilbo’s life, Thorin now realizes, was the one price he wasn’t willing to pay.

But that realization comes too late.

***

“What?!” Gandalf explodes. Thorin freezes.

Ought to have already been dead?

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. Bilbo had been weak, but alive.

Bofur grimaces. “I’m not entirely certain. For all I know he should have been dead then, but…” he shrugs and casts another wistful glance toward Bilbo’s face. “Using the power of the earth itself always kills the wielder. There are no exceptions. It’s why the practice has been mostly forgotten.”

Thorin blinks. He’d never even heard of it. But then, judging by his expression, Gandalf is equally dumbfounded.

“When we crossed the Shire I was surprised to find that it’s still in use. Well, in a seriously tuned down form - but Bilbo’s been quite good about sensing magic and stuff. He probably figured out what the Arkenstone was quickly.” Bofur chuckles tiredly. “I had no idea - and we call that rock _the Heart of the Mountain_.”

He shakes his head. In Thorin’s mind more pieces fall into place; and his veins crawl with icy realization.

“I never sensed any magic on it,” Gandalf protests weakly.

Bofur snorts. “That’s because it’s not exactly magic. The power of the earth is just that; power. And in some cases you get shortcuts to yielding it through objects like the Arkenstone.”

“Bilbo used it,” Thorin says in horror. Looks down to the still form - how could someone so small have wielded such power? Have known such a thing?

“He must have,” Bofur confirms. “I don’t know how he knew or how he did it. That knowledge was supposed to have been lost, but maybe hobbits retained it somehow.” He glances toward Gandalf, though the wizard shakes his head.

“I have never heard of such a thing,” he says in consternation.

“You said there were two pulses,” Thorin recalls. Did you use it twice, he wonders, as he glances at Bilbo’s peaceful face.

Bofur’s lips twitch. “That’s where things stop making sense,” he says. “All sources agree that even using it once will kill you. There’s no way anybody could have used it twice. And Bilbo … shouldn’t have been alive when you found him.”

“Somebody else used it?” Gandalf wonders aloud. “But the stone was with Bilbo the entire time.”

“It’s unprecedented,” Bofur agrees. “But I have a theory.”

“I think Bilbo was probably already dead when you found him,” he says bluntly, ignoring the stake those words drive through Thorin’s heart. “But either because you are King under the Mountain and in some way can affect Erebor or for some other reason - Erebor chose to expand some of her own power to Bilbo.”

“The second pulse you felt,” Gandalf mutters. Bofur confirms the guess with a nod.

“But the price had been paid; that could never be undone. Not even with the Arkenstone,” he continues, his voice softening with grief. “But perhaps the rules could be bent enough to allow a little more time.”

_Fin_


	54. Seafood & Sunburns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer has come to the East: too hot for hobbits and too sunny for certain parts of Thorin's skin not used to such exposure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts with a dash of angst, and then takes a sharp left toward comedy and nsfw. So fasten seatbelts. 
> 
> Also, this was written for the [Bagginshield summer surprise 2017](http://aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain.tumblr.com/post/162751853313/im-happy-to-announce-the-bagginshield) over on tumblr. :3

It turns out that Hobbits, Thorin thinks as he sits down on a corner of Bilbo’s bed, aren't good with the heat.

He'd known that Bilbo disliked Erebor’s freezing winters intensely. Dwarves do the same even though they are less prone to catching a cold. But he'd not known about the heat; which in hindsight turned out to be a rather grievous oversight.

At least the chamber, deep in the mountain, is cool, and some color has returned to Bilbo’s face. He had been grumbling about the weather all week despite spending most of it inside, and Thorin hadn't thought anything of it. After all, Bilbo’s good-natured complaints about everything from the lack of railings to the time it takes to strip their formal wardrobe of himself and Thorin constitute half of their normal dinner conversations.

But he'd been wrong.

“Why are we wearing fur in summer?” Bilbo had grumbled as they'd made their way to Dale for an official afternoon meeting with Bard. It had been beautiful outside; the sky clear and the lake glittering, and Dale nearly empty as its inhabitants all fled to the lakeshore or out onto the water.

“We will have quite some fish to trade by the end of the week,” Bard had said, laughing in the shade of his new house. “I hope dwarves like seafood.”

Then they'd talked more trade and tariffs and everything had seemed fine except for the faint crease developing between Bilbo’s eyebrows. He'd grown quiet, and Thorin had had a first inkling of something being wrong then.

“Just a headache,” Bilbo had muttered and wiped the sweat from his face with a fresh handkerchief as they'd climbed on the backs of their rams to make their journey home. The air had been sizzling, and the rams’ fur matted with sweat.

Fool that Thorin was, he'd hurried them back to Erebor, thinking it’d be best to let Bilbo rest as quickly as possible. Especially since he'd noticed Bilbo’s posture on the ram turning slack, and his face pale.

“I’ve seen potato sacks ride more gracefully than that,” Dwalin had muttered from behind them, half-way toward Erebor, and earned a sweat-soaked handkerchief thrown into his face. But Bilbo had straightened, and Thorin’s spirits lifted, and Erebor’s gates been close.

They made it easily. And Bilbo made it all of three steps away from his ram before quietly crumbling.

Thorin had frozen in disbelief – the icy-cold shock still sits deep in his veins. His brain had scrambled for an explanation; any, but people had started shouting, and Bilbo had not even twitched, just lain there, far too still.

When Thorin had turned Bilbo over, his beloved’s face had been pale and clammy, his breathing fast and shallow. Dwalin stood over them, hand on his axes, looking for an enemy - but Thorin had already realized this didn't result from an attack.

He'd been the one to carry Bilbo to this room, all the while recalling the stories he'd heard. No heat short of fire harms dwarves, but he had known other kinds were not so lucky, had seen men with terrible burn scars and beasts dying from heat exhaustion, their mouths wide open and eyes bulging.

Thorin pushes the memory aside. Bilbo rests quietly now. Oin had woken him shortly to “make sure his brains didn't get fried”, and he'd been together then. Grumpy and sluggish, but alright.

“I'm sorry,” Thorin says quietly to the still air, and reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair from Bilbo’s face. “I'll take better care of you from now on.”

(Bilbo, had he been awake, would have demanded to return the sentiment).

***

Thorin wakes early the next morning with a crick in his neck. For all that he spent half his life sleeping on hard ground, the corner of a lush mattress leaves him achy and out of sorts.

“Thorin?” Bilbo mutters, blinking owlishly at him. Tousled curls fall into his face, which, Thorin notes with relief, has fully regained its usual color plus a sunburn on his nose.

“Thorin, where are we?” Bilbo inquires, gazing around the unfamiliar chamber in confusion. “We are still in Erebor, aren't we?”

Thorin ignores his creaking joints to nod. “We are,” he confirms and his voice is rather scratchy from sleep. “I had a chamber deeper in the mountain prepared - it’s cooler down here.”

“Ah,” says Bilbo and a hint of red spreads over his cheekbones as the pieces fall back into place. “Thank you. It is nice and cold down here.” He stretches and slides from the bed. “You didn't, by any chance, also have anybody bring a change of clothes?”

***

“Bilbo? Where are you?”

It's a few days later, the air outside having grown even hotter, when Thorin returns to their quarters in the afternoon and finds Bilbo not in any of his recent favorite spots (which is stretched out on the marble in nothing but a thin tunic lately. At which point Thorin hadn't been able to resist, but his affections had earned him a foot to the shin and “get away from me, you furnace!” yelled at him.)

“Bilbo?” Thorin calls again, walking deeper into their quarters. Perhaps in the bath, then? It had been Bilbo’s second most favorite place lately.

However, the door leading to their large bathroom stands white open. A trail of water leads away from it. Thorin follows it; brows furrowing as it leads him to the open door of their terrace. A faint breeze greets him, hot and humid, and when he steps outside the sun is nearly blinding.

“Bilbo?” he asks, and then spies his hobbit under a makeshift sun sail, fanning himself. He’s also stark naked.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greets, and then drops his head back onto the pillows behind him. Thorin can't quite tell is the wetness on him is sweat or water - but there is a bucket of cold water at his feet and Bilbo keeps splashing himself.

“What are you doing outside?” Thorin asks in confusion. “It's hotter here than inside the mountain.” Even he is starting to feel uncomfortable, though that may also result from sight before him.

Bilbo grimaces. “Well, there's some air here. And sometimes there’s a draft from up the mountain that's nice and cool.”

Up the mountain - and Thorin has an idea.

Bilbo, too. “Why don't you take your furs off and join me?” he asks. “You look a bit hot under the collar.” The way his eyes trail Thorin’s body from head to toe while he bites his lower lip leaves little doubt to his intentions. Though Thorin isn’t certain whether the red flush to Bilbo’s cheeks stems from the heat or arousal.

Anyway. He's not actually scheduled for anything today, and while it looks good if the king attends, he's not needed for every meeting.

So he strips off his coat, drops it in a corner. Vest and boots follow, and he wriggles his toes on sun-warmed tiles while Bilbo waggles his eyebrows at him.

Thorin hesitates before taking off his undershirt. “All of it?”

“You said no one could see us up here,” Bilbo returns smugly.

Thorin glances down. Laketown and Dale are both hidden from view, and while he can make out boats on the lake, he can't discern individual people. He shrugs off the last bit of clothing and ignores the way his own cheeks color. Which they really shouldn't, because he's been naked outdoors many, many times before.

But Bilbo licks his lower lip and leans back in a way Thorin saw when leafing through certain illustrated volumes as a young and curious dwarf.

Naturally, another part of his anatomy flushes as well.

Bilbo isn't disinclined, either.

However, they soon realize that any body parts that come into contact for longer than a short moment grow uncomfortably sticky and sweaty. Which makes proceedings difficult to the point they relocate to the generously sized tub.

They relocate to the terrace later, soaked and sated and promptly fall asleep.

***

And that should have been it. Thorin’s skin is hardened from exposure, so he doesn't get sunburnt, and Bilbo made sure to properly position himself in the shade before nodding off.

Except, well. The parts of Thorin hardened by exposure did so because they have frequently been exposed to direct sunlight. Though it turns out that apparently his outdoor stints did not exactly expose his sun to direct sunlight. At least not the way falling asleep in the sun with his legs spread while completely naked does.

“You got sunburnt where?”

***

It's a strange few days that follow. Uncomfortably most of the time, but then there’s the point where his poor sunburnt skin needs lotion applied. And Bilbo applies himself to the job.

Once the sunburn has gone down, the skin starts shedding. Much to Bilbo’s everlasting amusement. If Thorin thought a handjob somewhere between pain and pleasure was strange, having his lover pull the dead skin of his cock and comment it's like seeing a snake shed is stranger still.

The next time he falls asleep in the sun, Thorin promises himself, he's going to do so on his stomach.

***

“It's done,” Bofur reports a few days later, looking nice and cool despite wearing his hat and full gear. “Actually a really good idea. If you’d commission it, we could turn it into a public access area. Might be popular at times like this.”

***

Bilbo returns to their quarters just before noon, swearing and sweating. He drops his cloak just past the door step, then groans aloud while Thorin pours him a glass of ice-cooled water.

“How was Dale?” he asks, holding out the glass.

Bilbo accepts it gracefully and plops into on of the chairs. “Hot. It was already hot when I left and you know that was before the sun came up.”

Thorin knows, because quite a few people had been wondering why anybody would travel before sunrise.

“But everything else went well,” Bilbo continues, beginning to unbutton his vest. “I mean they've all gone to the lake, so there’s hardly anybody there to argue. And they're sending fish up again.”

Thorin shrugs. “That's well. I like seafood.”

Then he steps forward and reaches out to touch Bilbo’s cheek (and it's slightly too warm, and Thorin can't help the concern in his chest.) “You look overheated,” he says, wondering if despite Bilbo’s good humor the heat is affecting him more than he’s letting on. “Let me take care of you.”

Bilbo furrows his eyebrows, tilts his head. But then he gives a small shrug. “Sure?”

Thorin smiles, steps back and holds out a hand. “Follow me.”

***

They go up. And up. And up. Upupupupup.

By the time the final staircase is in sight they're both wheezing and sweat-soaked. Thorin thinks he should have told the engineers to get a lift installed. But at least the air has been progressively getting cooler as well.

“This … is … new…” Bilbo gasps out as Thorin fumbles with the locking mechanism of Erebor’s latest door.

Breathless, Thorin nods.

Then the door swings open.

An icy gust of wind blasts into their faces; almost painfully cool. The outside is painfully bright as well.

But it's not hot.

Bilbo steps forward. Age old snow and icy crunch under his feet as he curls his toes. For the first time in days Thorin sees the tension seep from his shoulders.

“We’re on top?” he asks, gazing out into a landscape that slowly reveals itself to Thorin: a plain of glistening snow stretches before them, dropping sharply to their right, but rising dramatically to the left:

“There are several glaciers atop Erebor,” Thorin replied, cautiously following Bilbo. For all that dwarves venerate Erebor, they've always been more concerned with the inside. “This one is the most accessible.”

Or that is what the engineers decided after our viewing age old maps. Maybe he ought to have newer maps made - glaciers move slowly, but an age will likely be enough time to shift them as well. Still swifter than rock itself, though reviewing Erebor’s general stability may be an idea. Or producing updated maps of the mountain since his grandfather had been rather invested in opening new mines, but less invested in keeping track of them.

Also -

A snowball to the face draws him abruptly - and coldly - from his contemplations. Bilbo grins cheekily at him from a few steps away, the next snowball already in hand, and an arsenal of formed ones ready at his feet.  

“Bil - “ Thorin dodges that one. “bo-, hey,” he barely manages to duck out of the way. “wha - “ that one gets him in the shoulder. “-t are you doing?”

Bilbo smirks at him. “Helping you cool down,” he declares and launches the next attack.

One snowball hits Thorin in the face, blinding him momentarily though he hears the snow crunch and senses Bilbo draw up to him. He's confused for a split second -

Then skillful hobbit hands shove a snowball down the collar of his tunic.

The resulting squeak is completely involuntary and Thorin will deny having made it until his death and beyond. It's really not a kind of noise any dwarf off their mother’s chest ought to make.

Bilbo is bent over, laughing. Thorin, with snow melting on his skin and turning his clothes wet and sticky, decides he's not above a little revenge - and really, all it takes is a nudge of the hip for Bilbo to lose his balance.

The hobbit falls into the snow, face-first, though he catches himself with his hands. Thorin follows, just as Bilbo turns over, pressing him down with a hand on his chest and planning to shove as much snow as he can down Bilbo’s tunic. Except the hobbit sighs in relief against the cold, and smiles beatifically at Thorin.

“This is wonderful,” Bilbo declares, stretching his arms. “The snow is cool, the sun is warm - much better than -”

Thorin swallows the rest of the sentence with a kiss.

At first Bilbo’s eyebrows twist, but then he responds enthusiastically. Hands finds their way into Thorin's hair, underneath his tunic (and really, Bilbo has only one pair of hands, they can't be everywhere at once. It's probably testament to his skill that Thorin feels as if they are everywhere).

Into his pants.

Thorin shudders. Sweat builds on his back, and he shivers when a breeze of wind cools it. His clothes have vanished at some point, and he tosses Bilbo’s tunic behind them, too.

Bilbo beckons and Thorin follows. He presses kisses against Bilbo’s neck, chest, stomach. The hobbit sighs in bliss, his hands tracing the sun-warmed skin of Thorin’s lower back to his arse.

***

In the end, they leave an impression in the ice, the heat of their bodies having melted the ice there. Bilbo looks at it, hums. “At least it's not obscene,” he declares.

“Yes, well,” Thorin replies, staring toward the edge of the glacier where it drops sharply toward the lake. Down there, a spot of red flutters in the wind, caught between rock and ice.

Bilbo follows his gaze. “... that is my tunic, isn't it?”

***

And so summer continues. The glacier becomes popular with Erebor’s population, and some clever engineers figure that if they can use the heat from the forges to keep Erebor warm in winter, the same can be done with the glacial cold.

Their resulting construction is effective to the point that within three days of its instalment Bilbo catches a cold.

“This is ridiculous,” he complains from the bed.

Thorin, lying on his stomach next to him, because their excursion to the glacier has left him with another sunburn on parts of his skin not used to sunlight, concurs.

“Let's take a holiday,” Bilbo suggests. “At least until they manage to get temperatures in the mountain bearable.”

Thorin agrees.

***

Which is why they end up at a nice little bay only accessible from Erebor. There they have shade from a sun sail (no more sunburns for either of them), cold water to avoid overheating, warm air to avoid future colds, and no slippery slopes form where winds that will carry off clothing to distant lands.

And enough privacy for everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the things you end up googeling...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Episodes from Middle Earth, Chapter 49: "I'm dying, Thorin" by paranoid_fridge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509755) by [morgana_fire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgana_fire/pseuds/morgana_fire)




End file.
